


Dragon games

by JoyousRivers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dany and Viserys are two heads of the dragon, Dany plays the harp, F/M, More than one dimension Viserys, Ser Arthur lives, waiting for the third to pull up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:13:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24332611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoyousRivers/pseuds/JoyousRivers
Summary: "Play at your own peril the games of dragons." Magister Illryio learns the hard way that looks can be deceiving and the effects ripple through Essos and Westeros alike.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Viserys Targaryen/OC
Comments: 91
Kudos: 67





	1. Dany I

“Do you want to wake the dragon, you slut!” Viserys screeches at her as his forefinger tugs at her bare nipple. The seamstress only looks on in fear as he does, clutching the seafoam fabric in her hands. The magister does the same but is braver and tries to cool her brother’s temper, “Your Grace, she is a child and simply misspoke as children often do. After all, what does a woman know?” Her brother is not pleased, and it shows but he releases the nipple and it throbs painfully in the warm air. The very feeling causes her to whimper and tears threaten to spill until Viserys throws her a look.

The magister, frustrated and tired from the day’s activities, sighs and whispers to the unsullied guard by his side before snapping his fingers. The seamstresses’ apprentices appear, girls younger than she was, taller and shorter too. They’re dressed in fine fabrics, sweet smelling and neatly styled hair but Dany knows they’re slaves like the ones who tend to her and the magister’s manse. They work in pairs, one pair moves to gather her pretty dresses into the palanquin, another help her to remove her dress, neither Viserys nor the magister looked away.

The magister sits between her and Viserys on the ride back to the manse. He spends the journey aimed at cheering her up and only succeeds when he asks about her favorite food. She tells him of the honeyed cakes that Viserys stole for her once, with the coin they had they could only afford a loaf of bread at the time, but it was her nameday and she had gone hungry for so long. It was succulent and sweet, and she could taste the warm honey on her tongue as the memory washed through her once more. That night after they’d had supper and while the women prepared her bath, a kitchen girl comes in with a large silver platter of honeyed cakes, just for her.

~***~

Saerena of Lys was beautiful and known across the continent for her skillful fingers with and without the high harp, from a bed slave in a Lysene pleasure house to a courtesan that held the sway, if rumors were true, of many wealthy magisters across Essos and at least one Triarch. It was no wonder that the magister had paid in gemstones and yards of silk for her to tutor Dany in the art of pleasure, as Viserys poorly explained before storming out. Her brother agreed with the magister from what she heard from his rant just outside her chamber doors, but he felt that a whore would be an equally good teacher. Dany knew what whore he had in mind; her brother’s lust would overcome him whenever he found her in the company of Doreah, a sweet and pretty girl who wanted nothing to do with him as far as she knew. But Dany could not help her, for as long as she worked under the magister, she would always be near Viserys and her brother always got what he desired, so she prayed to whatever gods would hear her to keep Doreah safe.

“Is your mind here princess?” Saerena asked, holding her face still. “Your fingers are delicate and soft, yet you pluck on the harp like a maid would a fowl. Why? A harp is not plucked, it is strummed with the flat of your fingers you rub the strings just enough and the instrument sings.” With her fingers on Dany’s, she proved her instruction and the harp ceased its yowling and hummed in harmony with her voice. Days later and after three more lessons with Saerena, the magister asked for a demonstration and Dany was glad to prove his money well spent though her chest could not contain her heart. With shaky fingers, she strummed a song that Saerena taught and though she missed a few notes at the beginning, both the magister and her tutor applauded her efforts with smiles and praises.

She paid for it later with only a bruised arm, it would have been worse if the guards hadn’t called the magister. Viserys came to her door under the pretense of hearing her play for he was doing business when she gave her performance. She was on the first notes of the song when Viserys complained that Rhaegar had been better then her and when she could not complete the piece with her shaking fingers, her brother grabbed her arm tightly and accused her of trying to waste the magister’s wealth on her stupid womanly wiles. The magister left her with a guard after that, a tall sturdy man that frightened Viserys, though he told her brother otherwise, something about the usurper from the way he smiled and eagerly nodded. For the next three moons, she receives honeyed cakes after every meal and silk dresses separate from the ones Viserys was aware of.

~***~

“I don’t want to be his queen” She begs Viserys, as soon as the Dothraki Khal rode off with his blood riders, “I want to go home.” The magister shifts with discomfort by her brother’s side and looks at her with pleading eyes. But she shook her head and choked down her tears as she looked to purple eyes not so different from her. They turn from alarm to disgust to rage and she was sure in that moment that Viserys would breathe fire. He briskly walks to her side and strikes her with a force enough to send her crashing on her knees.

“How do you suggest we go home sister? Do we play your harp for the usurper and sing him sweetly off my throne? You ungrateful whore! All you’ve ever done was repay me with tears. Your horse husband will at least prove more useful.” She doesn’t hear the end of his rant, maybe because the loud ringing in her ears, or the flood of sweet blood in her mouth, or the scream of the magister and the terror her brother unleashes when the guards try to prevent him for hurting her even worse. The guards rush her into the manse and the maids promptly arrive in her chambers pressing something on her face. It’s not until she glances at her bedside mirror that she notes the ugly purpling of her cheek and retches her lunch at some poor maid’s feet. After that, a medicine woman pushes a vial past her lips, the liquid taste so sweet in her mouth, but turns sour in her belly.

She wakes to a cool cloth pressed on her cheek, she hisses, and less pressure is applied. She looks up expecting a maid but instead sees the magister. His lips curve into a smile and he leans to kiss her temple. “I hoped you would have learned to hold your tongue around your brother Daenerys, but the blood of the conqueror equally runs hot in you it seems. It’s a pity truly. Your face is too pretty my sweet and you are not made of hay.”

“I don’t want to marry him magister please,” She begs, her cheeks burning with each movement of her lips. He looks at her with pity and Dany fights the urge to look away from his stare as shame blooms from her cheeks to her toes. _No, he must look at me to know I speak true._

“You’re a princess and the Khal is a king. What is better for a princess?” He asks, wiping her streaming tears with his fat fingers.

“A good man, magister. A good man is best.”


	2. Dany II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actual chapter with mentions of offscreen rape.

The thought of a colorful market view and Doreah’s incessant chatting did nothing to quell the clenching in her stomach. Despite still in recovery from her hurts, the magister quickly but not unkindly hurried her out of his manse with Doreah, a handful of guards, and a purse spilling with gold coins. The magister’s urgency could only mean one thing: Viserys was returning from his business trip. When she had been granted leave to walk around the manse by the medicine woman, she learned why her brother had not visited her in her sick bed. Dany held hope, foolish as it might have been, that he was ashamed of his actions but in truth he had sailed off on one of the magister’s ships to acquire sellswords, though the magister admitted it with great difficulty. Her hopes for reconciliation shriveled then and, in its wake, arose a bitter hope for Viserys’ disgrace. They would laugh at him, she had been so sure, like the Golden Company did but then she remembered that it was the kind magister’s wine that the sellswords would drink, his food they would eat, his coin would convince them to support her brother’s campaign.

She did not hate Viserys, not truly, how could she? He was her brother, her king, and for a long time, he had been her only hope in the world. They were the only ones left and he just wanted to take her home. Like he had promised.

“Stop!” She said softly, then louder when Doreah looked at her in bewilderment. “Tell them to stop. We’ll walk to the market.”

“But we’re almost there princess.” Doreah said but Dany was already climbing down the shoulder of the large man lifting her side. “You can rest” she told them. Her heart breaking as they looked at each other and shook their heads before the head of the palanquin spoke in accented common tongue, “princess, market here. We go.”

“Se magister kessa dōrī rȳbagon hen bisa drējī. Issa iā gevie tubis hen. Doreah se kesan geron naejot se tistālion. Rest kesīr. Kesi rhaenagon ao kesīr skori iksi tetan” She said in her best bastard Valyrian, it did not have the effect she hoped, instead they quivered in fear still and shook their heads.

“Nyke pāsagon zirȳla. Mēre hen kostā māzigon lēda īlva while se rest umbagon” Doreah added, and the one who helped her down stepped forward and nodded. Keeping pace behind them as they walked.

“Why did they not listen to me?” Dany found herself asking as they neared the market. _Did they fear her?_ She shuddered at the thought of being something scary. The only dragon she had met was Viserys’ temper and it was a monster to face.

“The magister cares very much for you princess. Your sweetest promises mean shit to them.” Doreah answered.

“And yours don’t?”

“Only a slave knows a slave princess and you’re not one despite how your brother treats you. I swore for you, I put my neck on the line for you, and so they believe you.”

“I will not let you down.” Dany said hoping that the man behind understood her.

Pentoshi markets were much different to visit on foot, Dany learned. She saw servants leave in different palanquins than they came in and merchants drop purses of gold coins with ease and those purses picked up by completely different merchants who simply walked away and alerted no one. She bought some things: bottles of flowery spice scents, bottles of soap, sandals and jewels for her handmaidens back at the manse and some fresh fruit for the magister. He just about talked her ear off concerning his love for peaches. Her purchase did nothing to ease her mind’s worry and before long, she thrust the barely reduced purse into Doreah’s hands, the girl looked at her strangely before smiling wide and skipping to a garment merchant. 

“I would like to know your name.” She asked her shadow with a smile. Doreah, when she asked, said that he needed for nothing, but Dany doubted that. He looked at her for a long time before answering, “Losso.”

“Losso” She said, balancing each letter on her tongue. “What does it mean?”

“Guard.” She could only nod. His name was quite literal then.

“How long have you served Illyrio?” He looked at her confused and she explained, “the fat magister? How long have you lived in his house?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, his face twisting along with it. “Losso, boy then. Losso, man now.”

_Boy to man_ , she thought, _that could be two years or much more_. Looking at Losso it was much more. He looked past the age of twenty and five, rugged and strong, of Dothraki blood no doubt though his hair was unfortunately cropped so short that he was only afforded a single braid that barely reached the back of his neck. What had Viserys said again? The longer the braid the more battles won. Losso had either lost at a very young age or he was born into the life of a slave with no victories but survival. The very thought made her want to cry.

She could not continue their conversation concerning his beginnings in the magister’s manse, but what she could do was buy his new sandals and a floppy hat that protected his neck from the sun. In lieu of thanks, she asked him to teach her some Dothraki and though initially hesitant, she eventually learned that there were no words for ‘thank you’ in the language, and that she looked like _Jalan,_ the moon. _Jalan_ is a god to the Dothraki, the wife of the sun, _Shekh._ She smiled at the comparison till she thought of Khal Drogo, her betrothed. Would he be her _Shekh_? The magister had assured her that his plans were still in motion. Her fear of Viserys quieted her fears for the Khal.

When she had grown weary of peaches and cool wine, she decided to search the market for Doreah and seeing that most of the stalls were closed, she asked Losso to do the same. They would cover more ground then. She moved with ease through the market, looking for Doreah while feeling the sun-warmed silks in a garment stall and flipping through the books in the parchment stall until a delicious smell brought her to a small stall run by an old weathered woman. She smiled when she saw Dany closer, and hummed her tune louder as she inspected the stall. She sold roast corn, roasted on an open fire, and still in their ears. She was not very hungry but when she saw her full tray, Dany could not help herself from purchasing all displayed.

“Are you sure sweet girl?” the woman asked in a soft voice whilst looking at her. Dany could see the watery blues in her eyes and nodded fervently. The woman smiled and gathered them quickly, giving her the bag before she could pay. She counted the coins carefully to pay and just as she pressed the last gold coin into the woman’s hand, she grabbed Dany’s wrist and spoke in a voice Dany could only describe as the rumbling of a storm, “ **dragons are fire made flesh**!”

Her ears were ringing again. “Princess!” The sun was too hot and far too bright. “Princess!” Where was the nice old woman? “Princess!” Where did she go? “Princess” someone shook her, and another splashed some water on her face. It was Doreah. “Is she well?” and Losso too. “I hope so. Why did you leave her side?”

“I told him too” Dany answered to save Losso grief. “We were looking for you. It’s time to go home.”

“We’ve been looking for you” Doreah said, “where were you?”

“The corn stall,” she pointed…but nothing was there and they both said so. “No, the old woman, she…she had so much, and it is delicious.”

“I went around this market three times princess. I never saw a corn stall.”

“but I have corn” She showed them the bag and alas, there was corn in it. Three large ears. _Didn’t she buy more?_ Dany thought deeply but she could not remember, and her head was starting to ache.

“I must have missed it.” Doreah said though she sounded unsure. “Let’s go. The magister has surely waited a long time for our return.”

The magister was worried when they returned but she pleaded to speak with him privately. He acquiesced and asked that she join him for supper. She still felt full of peaches and thought to reject his offer, but she had already caused the kind magister a lot of worry. Then she remembered the peaches she had bought for him, as expected he was glad that she remembered and ate everyone as she peeled them. The magister called for tea instead once they were finished, making a joke that she would have her husband eating out of her hands in no time, she laughed and smiled just as Saerena had instructed her, just as she had learned, to ask about Viserys’ success in his plans but the magister dismissed her, smiling ear to ear, “All in good time princess, all in good time.”

She wandered carefully through the hallways after failing to find Doreah, the hairs on her neck raised in alert, despite her guard with her, Viserys could still confront her and though instructed to protect her, the guard was also sworn to not harm her brother. As she took a turn into the hallway that led to her chambers, she heard a faint noise and as she went farther, they sounded even louder. It was only when she reached Viserys’ chambers that she understood what they were. She wanted to retch as cries sounded in a familiar voice. _Doreah._ She swallowed and continued to her chambers. Not turning back even once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Se magister kessa dōrī rȳbagon hen bisa drējī. Issa iā gevie tubis hen. Doreah se kesan geron naejot se tistālion. Rest kesīr. Kesi rhaenagon ao kesīr skori iksi tetan” -> “the magister he will never hear of this truly. it is a beautiful day. Doreah and I will walk forward to the market. Rest here. We will meet you here when we are finished”
> 
>   
> Nyke pāsagon zirȳla. Mēre hen kostā māzigon lēda īlva while se rest umbagon ->I trust her. One of the you can come with us while the rest remain


	3. Dany III

She watched as night turned to day, moon to sun, and as the stars disappeared as they appeared, in twinkles. Dany couldn’t sleep even after Doreah had stopped crying all, she could hear was the thumping of her heart. She was out of tears and patience for gods that listened to none of her prayers and for Viserys. For who he had become. When she heard more than two pairs of footsteps outside her door, she rose and shrugged on her coat as mornings were chilly in Pentos. She smiled at the guards and rushed, tiptoed round Visery’s chambers, to the magister’s. But he wasn’t there and so she tried his audience room.

“I need to speak to the magister!” she explained to the guard looking over her shoulder. “please it’s urgent before he wakes.” Yet the man shook his head and blocked her way. She was just about to tear her hair out when the door opened and out came Doreah, with bruised neck and purple swelling on her face and an outpouring of hate in her once loving blue eyes.

“I’m sorry” Dany whispered too ashamed to look at her for longer. Whether or not the girl heard her, Dany did not know, she only walked on. “Princess” the magister called from his chambers and she hurried to answer.

“I’m sorry.” She said once she sat across him. He offered tea once more, but Dany could not stomach anything. “It was not you that hurt her child. It was your brother.” The kind magister answered with a smile. “You cannot control your brother’s temper or any of his feelings anymore than I.”

“I knew he wanted her. He looked at her that way whenever he saw us together. I…I didn’t think he’d do this. I could have stopped him.” She whispered the last part, tears already streaming down her face. She didn’t hear the magister stand or even walk closer to her, she only felt his fat hands on her face, holding her as tenderly as a lover, “while you should have said something. I would not blame you for not doing so, after all that’s what I bought the girl for.”

“What?”’

He pushed the falling hair out of her eyes, “you are surely aware of your beauty princess. Not many a man can resist it, especially not your brother. When I rescued you both from the streets, I did not see a brother’s love for his sister but a man’s love for a woman. I had to curb that or else he would have taken you. What would that leave me with? No Khalessi for a Khal? That could not be so. The girl was meant to sate his desires.”

“D-Doreah” she stammered, “she’s my friend.”

“As sweet as a queen already, but you must not think of her like that anymore, she has served her purpose.”

“And now?”

“Now” he smiled leaving her face to pull at something under his desk. The kind magister jiggled as he heaved to pull the chest out. By the time he was done, puddles of sweat stained his garment, ran down his bald head and dripped off his forked beard. His smile did not waver though, and as he opened the chest, Dany understood why. Dragon eggs, large and colorful and surely worth a fortune but for what?

“I had a wife like you once child, my second one, silver hair and violet eyed. When you spoke to me of a good man, all I could see was my poor Serra, taken from me too soon. The gods are cruel, if there are any. Your Khal is no good man, and neither is your brother, I hope you’re smart enough to see that. A good man, nay, a good King would hurt his sister as he does you. But I know of much better men, that can take you home.”

“The Khal, am I not to wed him? Viserys said-”

“A fool my dear. Forgive me but your brother is a fool. The negotiations have fallen through. I would not see you hurt sweet child. Not after all you’ve suffered under him. How long until it’s you in fair Doreah’s place? Help me protect you princess.”

Then she understood and grabbed her hand from his grasp quickly, “I’m no kingslayer magister nor a kinslayer. The Seven. I cannot.”

“For poor Doreah” The kind magister clicked his tongue, “I thought she was your friend. I assure you princess; your brother will stop at nothing to have you. Will you be willing, or will you be Doreah?” He kissed her temple as he caressed her face, “what are gods to a dragon?”

~***~

Her handmaidens came to her room an hour after, all except for Doreah. Her brother was to entertain some wealthy merchants, so the largest tub was brought out for her bath; a white polished marble. She soaked in the tub with fine said and hot water to scrub her skin anew. Then a maid attended to each limb, picking and buffing at her nails. Then they bathed her skin and hair in fragrant soaps and oils. She broke her fast in her room, on bread and honeyed oats and milk. She held it down for about an hour before retching.

“You’re burning hot. Are you well child?” The seamstress asked as she tried every material on her skin. Dany’s stomach was in knots and her legs felt so weak she could hardly stand but she did, and she with her biggest smile. She declined lunch but it came regardless with Doreah as the kitchen girl. Neither girl looked at the other. But once one was done, a tray was collected, and a vial received.

The seamstress had done her best work yet, for Dany did not know the princess that stared back at her through the mirror. She was dressed in violet silk to bring out her eyes, with a crown adorned with polished gemstones and a smile that could almost fool her. She thanked the woman and followed the guards to the cellar where the magister reserved for the before the arrival of the guests.

Before she could enter, she was unfortunate enough to see her brother, dressed like a King with the smug sharp smile on his lips. “You almost look like a princess, Dany” He said coming closer to whisper, “but you slouch still.” He forced her shoulders back and tilted up her chin. “If you don’t want to wake the dragon. You won’t ruin this night for me sweet sister. This day will be remembered when we’re both naught but dust by father and mother’s tombs.”

The magister welcomed her brother with his titles, and her with a smile and a note on how much prettier she looked. He clapped and a servant brought a jug of wine but when a chalice was placed before her, Viserys pushed it away. “None for her. I would not have her shaming me tonight.” The magister bowed his head and said nothing, before taking her brother side to discuss business.

Dany’s hands shook to the rhythm of the thumping of her heart. _What was she about to do?_ She thought of Doreah, of her friend that could not even look at her. Did she not deserve justice damn the consequences? _Yes, she did._ And with that answer, she emptied the content of the vial into the chalice. She could only stare at her hands afterward. _What had she done?_

The magister and her brother returned to the table with high spirits and laughter in their chests. The kind magister cleared his throat, “a toast, if I may Your Grace, to the return of House Targaryen to their rightful seat, the defeat of the usurper and his dogs, and to your glorious reign. Long may it be.” She shut her eyes and merely smiled for Viserys yet unable to look at either her brother nor the kind magister.

“Long may it be!” Viserys replied and the Magister cheered before they both drank again. One chalice slammed down on the table and then the other…and then coughing and heaving and the slamming of fists on a table. Then Dany looked up and met the Magister’s eyes, his fat face was even fatter, swollen and purple and bulging and throbbing like an open wound. So, this is how the strangler worked. He looked at Viserys then back at her.

“How does that saying go again, sweet sister?’

“Play” Dany said as she stood to stare deeper into the magister’s now bloodshot eyes, watching as the last of his rotten soul fled his rotten body, “at your own peril, the games of dragons.”


	4. Viserys I

He lifted the magister’s fat arm and watched as it dropped. He could breathe again. It was done. Dany though was worse for wear; her eyes stared off in the distance, her hands were shaking, and she couldn’t, or he feared, wouldn’t look at him. He poured some wine into his chalice and folded her hands gently round the stem and urged her to drink. With a finger to her soft lips, he hushed whatever she was going to say and repeated, “Drink, all of it and two more before you speak.” After her third swallow, her lilac eyes were warm again and her hands ceased to tremor. She licked her lips and glanced over at the body, “what do we do now?”

He held her face in a loving embrace, “you have done more than enough. It’s thanks to you that this is a success. I will take care of this.” Her silvery brows furrowed surely wondering why she wasn’t being informed of he next stage of plans. “I promise to let you know in due time but for now, shuffle along to your chambers and have a good night’s rest.”

“There are no wealthy merchants, are there?”

“No” he answered, “just a well-paid troupe.”

“And the servants that know? Will they keep our secrets? How much did you pay them, or did you set them free?”

“I gave them a choice Dany, they were free to go as long as they swore to never speak of whatever happened here tonight. Who would believe a slave anyway? Or they could stay, keep their freedom and our secrets, and earn coin continuing their work here.”

“But for how long?” Dany asked, inching closer to stand before him, “the magister is dead but how will his wealth be kept flowing to us.”

“I know I played a fool for a long-time sister, but I am not one. Do you trust me?”

She nodded ‘yes’.

“Then trust that I have planned all things to keep us well and protected like I promised. Sweet dreams sister, I’ll see you on the morrow. There’s work to be done.” She kissed his cheek and left the cellar, shadowed by two guards.

~***~

He was not surprised by the cold and empty spot by his side when he woke. Viserys knew what was coming despite how much he tried to delay it. All he had to do was look across the room to see her, sat before the vanity, brushing her fair hair and humming that annoying tune of hers. “Should I take offense?” She threw the brush, spooked, and pressed her lips into a thin line as he laughed at her reaction. He hissed soon though, when her plump lips formed into a pout as she gazed at him through the mirror and made a show of trying and failing to reach the brush.

Viserys Targaryen was no one’s help…and yet he got up, shrugged on his robe, opened the balcony windows to take a deep breathe of the cool morning air, and then he picked up the brush, taking his time to make his way to the vanity. She snorted and snatched it from him, “I’ve heard of insufferable princes, I’ve bedded some too, but you have to be the worst I’ve encountered.”

“Not all princes are dragons, my sweet, and I am both.” His kissed the crown of her hair, “I hoped that you’d at least stay in bed for longer.”

She smiled a sweet smile that lit up her sea blue eyes, “it feels like there’re dragons in my belly, fluttering about. I cannot rest.”

“If there are truly dragons in your belly then you should be staying here with me.” He lifted her chin to look at her in the dawning light of day. He’d swept through every feature to keep it in his memory for a long as he could, for she would never come back. She wasn’t the type. “Dany is going to miss you. She’s always wanted a sister.”

“Dany will be fine, she’s more dragon than you think” Doreah countered, “She had that fat bastard eating out of her palm without any training, or at least little training with the courtesan, they are girls in pillow houses that go through months of training and are still unable to do what she did.”

“My sister is not a pillow slave.” He bites out. It was never his intention to turn his little sister into a whore what else could they play to but the magister unabashed desire for her. His pig eyed never left her body and the dresses he so kindly bought for her; each one obscener that the last, did nothing to hide what he avoided to admit for a long time. Try as he might to continue to see her as only his Dany; his little sister that played in the fountains on hot days, fed pieces of bread to birds and baby animals in the markets, and shared their last coin to fellow beggars on the street, she even amidst the begging on the streets and the constant hiding from the usurper’s hired knives, had blossomed into a beautiful woman like mother had been.

“You’ve been keeping the wrong company if you dislike pillow slaves so, and I never said she was.”

“You’re not a pillow slave. You’re part of a troupe.”

“While I am glad that we could come to a compromise that gained us freedom from the magister, I hold no shame for having been a pillow slave. Could you tell a pillow slave from Lys and a whore from Westeros apart?”

“Yes, I could. Both don’t sound the same” He answered, and she swat his arm, “the ship leaves the harbor early and you wouldn’t dare leave without seeing Dany.”

~***~

“I’ve been writing a piece for you.” Dany said as they broke their fast hurriedly on fresh baked bread, poached eggs, and creamy oats. “it’s not yet complete but I have some notes and…would you like to hear it?”

“We might not have the time to Dany-” He started to say but Doreah hushed him, “there’s always time to listen to music. I would love to.” Her excitement matching his sister’s with a layer of watery eyes and fervent nods. Dany turned to Losso, who had become her shadow, and the guard nodded and left to bring her harp.

Dany, unsurprising, had her notes already spread on her lap, and began to hum and sway. When Losso returned with the harp, she thanked him and stood, took a bow and started to strum her piece. It was light and sweet, rough and sharp, with shaky notes, but that did not prevent his chest from puffing with pride. He was once again reminded of the family they had lost. It ended abruptly as any incomplete piece would and left him neither sad nor happy. They applauded as she bowed, and Doreah grabbed her into an embrace as soon as Losso collected the harp, “I will miss you Dany.”

“And I you. Write us on everywhere you go, and on the plays, too. I would give anything to see them.”

“Always, there will always be a place for you with me, anytime not just when your brother almost bores you to death.” To his dismay Dany laughed.

“I’ll have written a thousand pieces by then.”

“And I would be glad to hear them all.”

~***~

They had just sat for supper, in one of the gardens, the prettiest according to Dany for it faced the open sea, when the blaring of trumpets sounded outside their gates.

“Who could that be?” Dany asked and he thought to send her back into the manse, instead he turned to the servant coming down for the manse with a silver platter in hand, “Find out who that is.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He set the platter down on the table and opened it to find deer ribs coated in a wine sauce and garnished with roast onions. Dany stretched her neck to watch the servant leave. “We’ll find out who it is once they get here sister, don’t let your supper get cold.” She huffed rather insolently but asked no more questions and focused on her food.

The servant ran came back with sweat on his brow, “A herald Your Grace, from the prince of Pentos. They let him in.” He dismissed the servant with his thanks and got up to dust him garment, anticipation welling in his chest.

There was only one reason why the Prince would send a herald. The magister had mentioned the man, a magister like himself in truth, but in passing and not unkindly despite the circumstance. Viserys had been counting the days until a friend or business partner, for the magister had no family, would arrive and inform them of his passing but he could have never imagined this and that put in an uncomfortable position.

The herald reached them sat atop his horse, caparisoned with a cold of cloth. “Prince, Princess.” He greeted with a bow before extending a missive of Viserys, “The Prince sends his deepest condolences on the passing of Magister Illyrio and invites Your Graces to sup with his family in a fortnight.” Viserys unrolled the missive and read. It was just as the herald said ending with the Prince’s seal.

“What happened…how did he die?” Dany asked, now by side with already tear stained cheeks and a heaving chest. The herald looked at her with pity and extended a cloth to dry her tears, “All will be made aware during the supper Princess.”

He cleared his throat, “I thank you good ser, shall I ask the kitchens to prepare a meal for you? The journey must have been arduous one.”

“It would please me Your Grace, but I have more messages to deliver,” the herald replied before galloping away.

“Viserys” Dany asked once she was done reading the letter, “what do you of the Prince of Pentos?”


	5. Jon I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally we meet Jon

“This is Ghost.” Jon introduced, lifting the sleeping pup to the stone. Ghost huffed at him displeased to woken but sniffed closer to the statue and licked at the mouth. “Robb and I found him and his siblings on the way back from hunting.” He explained before setting the pup down and wiping the slobber from her mouth. In her lap laid a meagre southron flower most likely from the king. He took it and fed to the fire of the oil lamp and replaced it with a fresh garland of blue winter roses that he bled his fingers picking.

“You shouldn’t be here this late” A voice called out from the darkness. With Ghost continuing his slumbering at his feet and the familiar voice, Jon had no reason to fear. Ser Arthur, the Sword of the Morning, walked out of the shadows with a kind smile atop his lips and a winter rose in his hand. “There are Lannister and Baratheon men at every turn. You should be more careful, Aemon.”

“And you?” He asked, “shouldn’t you stop sneaking into Winterfell at odd hours especially with the King and his court here?”

“King,” The knight snorted, “Jon Arryn and Tywin Lannister are the true kings of the realm. Robert should thank his gods that our paths have yet to cross. My blade has a thirst.” The knight walked closer to place the single rose on mother’s stone dress. Ghost woke again though Jon doubted if he ever went back to sleep and nuzzled at the knight’s pant leg before tugging at the garment with sharp teeth. Ser Arthur picked the pup up and snarled at him, “I have teeth too you spoiled thing.” Ghost bared his fangs and nipped at the knight’s nose causing him to laugh. “Remind me to bring him some roast chicken on my next visit. How are you faring lad?”

“Fine” Jon murmured, “just thinking.”

“Brooding, you mean to say. What about?”

“I need to tell Arya the truth,” He said looking at the knight when he spoke.

“It’s your identity Aemon, it rests on you to tell whoever you deem fit but why not Robb?”

“Robb is my brother and I love him, but he could get drunk and tell Theon or Lady Stark and then where would I be? With Arya, I can trust that Lady Stark will never know and she deserves to know. It’s only right.”

He did not expect the knight to sigh with relief and smile, “good choice, she has much of your mother in her. Robb’s a good lad but I fear he becomes something else around the ward. When do you want to do it?”

“I’ll let you know when the time is right.” Did such a time exist? It wasn’t until his ten and third nameday that he had stumbled upon the truth after getting in a brawl in an inn in Wintertown where Robb and Theon had coaxed him and schemed to rid him of being a man-maid. To his rescue came Andren the town butcher on his evening meat delivery when he heard the ruckus. Jon thoroughly searched his head for a bump afterwards when Andren had dressed his wounds in his small hovel and revealed himself to be the legendary Ser Arthur, showed him Dawn as evidence, knelt to him and proclaimed him, Aemon Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, and the heir to the Iron Throne.

~***~

He blocked every one of Robb’s strikes effortlessly and quick enough to strike his brother in turn and watch his footwork falter. A gasp came from behind though Jon would not turn to look. Instead, he shook away the fat drops of sweat that threatened to blur his sight and tightened his hold on the training sword watching his brother’s every move.

By the look of him, Robb was tired, his blue eyes were dull, and shame had reddened his cheeks. Robb was as good a swordsman as father, footwork and all but Jon had always been better, even before his knight’s training. He’d been ashamed of winning all his life, feared that doing so would bring on the wrath of Lady Stark and prove to all that he nothing more than a greedy bastard, scheming and without honor. But he wasn’t greedy neither was he a bastard, it only made sense that with the double blood of Kings in his veins, he would be ambitious.

As expected, Robb charged at him sword raised and feigning right first. Jon took the bait and blocked right and received a smack on his left that forced air out of his chest. That was enough charity for him, and he engaged his brother in a mutual sparring, watching the strength bleed out of this brother’s arms as time went on. When he was satisfied, Jon struck the training sword out of his brother’s hand and caught it in his.

“Yield.” He commanded, pointing his brother’s sword at his throat.

“Others take you” Robb cursed before breaking into a laugh and capturing him in an embrace, “how did you get so damn good!”

“I don’t spend all my hours around Theon for one.” He japed back and received a blow to the stomach.

“Alright lads! Enough of that, get out of your armor, drop your training swords, and go bother someone else.” Ser Rodrick’s bellowed from a distance. Methodically, he took off his armor and the padding and dropped them in a pile with his training sword. Robb though was done before him and went ahead to the hot springs.

“Who taught you that boy?” Someone asked as Jon bent to gather the training sword for the yard help. He turned to see Tyrion Lannister, with a curious look in his mismatched eyes.

“I’m not a boy” Jon replied the man, staring at him longer than he intended to. His head was too large, his body too little, and his legs bowed. It must be a pain to walk, Jon thought.

“Who thought you that, bastard?” Tyrion Lannister asked again with a drunk grin on his features.

“Ser Rodrick. He trains us all.” Jon answered, eager to end the conversation.

“And yet, neither the ward nor any of your half-brothers moved like you did. My brother said the same.” Jon looked around to see if Ser Jaime was still in the area and only met with Lady Stark’s cold blue eyes. How long had she been watching him? he wondered as he stared back at her. Her face twisted into a frown at his audacity and she gathered her skirts and left.

“You might come to regret that bastard” The dwarf piped up by his side, “women, mothers especially, are most ruthless when protecting their little ones”

“Robb and I were just sparring” He said, “and she won’t have to suffer my presence for much longer. I’ll be joining the night’s watch.”

Tyrion snorted, “what a waste of a good sword arm and a cock. But if anyone was ever going to raise an honorable bastard, it would be Lord Stark. Bastardy is no reason to throw one’s life away, and if you’re so eager to do so, consider joining the Kingsguard.”

“I would rather stay in the north and close to my family” Jon replied.

“Oh, you haven’t heard, the Baratheons, Lannisters, and Starks are to be family soon with your pretty sister, Sansa, set to wed Prince Joffrey. A handsome pair, don’t you think?” Then just before them, a large horse dawn carriage halted to a stop and out came Sansa, radiant and as red as her hair, and Prince Joffrey, his golden curls shimmering in the sunlight. Septa Mordane was close behind them as a chaperone. Though it didn’t seem like either of them noticed her as they were like lovers in those songs Sansa loved so much, blushing and unable to keep their eyes off each other.

“Ah, young love.” Tyrion mocked, “some have it easiest. Us not so much.”

“You’re Tyrion Lannister, the trueborn son of Lord Tywin Lannister. I fail to see how my lord’s life could have been anything but.”

“All dwarves as bastards in their father’s eyes, boy.”

~***~

“Why are we going to the crypts so late?” Arya whispered as they watched for guards before sprinting across the lichyard to reach, and as quietly as he could, open the old ironwood door.

“There is something you need to know” he answered as he shut the door behind them and scrambled for a match. He squinted as the oil lamp burned bright and stretched his hand out to her, “Come along little sister.”

Arya narrowed her eyes at him but took his hand and followed, “I swear if this is some trick and Robb or Bran or Theon are hiding behind some tomb. I’ll kick the shit out of all of you.”

Jon laughed, “now, now, didn’t Septa Mordane teach you how to speak like a lady.” He stopped them when they reached his mother’s tomb and asked, “do you know who this is?”

She stared at him like he’d grown a second head, “Of course I do. It’s father’s little sister, Lady Lyanna.”

“and my mother.” Jon added in a whisper and soaked in the quiet that descended on them for a moment, before turning to look at her. 

“How hard did you hit your head?” She asked him and he chuckled, “that’s the exact thing I thought but it’s true. Lady Lyanna is my mother.”

“So, who-” She paused, and he could see in the candle light the turning cogs in her head, “your father would be Rhaegar Targaryen.” She said slowly, “and you’d be a Blackfyre?”

“Bite your tongue, my lady” Ser Arthur spoke from the shadows. Arya spun quickly and raised her fists, but he stayed her attack with a hand on his shoulder. “Arya, I want you to meet Ser Arthur Dayne or as you know him Arden, the Wintertown butcher.”

“What sick jape is this?” She asked hurt shadowing her eyes and voice, “give me a ghost covered in flour any day Jon, but this is too much. I-” She was interrupted by the knight’s unsheathing of his sword. The legendary Dawn. The light from the oil lamp was dulled by the otherworldly glow of the sword. It was light in the darkness.

“gods” Arya stuttered and turned to look at him with watery eyes, “you’re truly not pulling my leg, are you?”

“No, little sister. This is too costly a joke to make.”

“Aemon Targaryen is the trueborn son of my prince and your aunt, my lady.” Ser Arthur spoke. His voice echoing down the crypts.

Arya’s face broke into a grin, “Aemon, like the dragon knight. Little wonder you’re so good with a sword. Wait, have you been having sword lessons with _the_ Sword of the Morning?”

“Three hours every day” Ser Arthur answered, “I would not see Rhaegar’s son useless with a blade.”

“I wasn’t useless. Ser Rodrick said I fought just fine.” Jon protested.

“For a bastard, you fought terribly and for a Prince, disastrous.”

“Okay ser, you can take your leave now.”

The knight merely shrugged and sheathed his sword back into its scabbard, “My lady. My prince.”

“You just dismissed the Sword of the Morning. I wish that little shit Joffrey could see this.”

Jon felt a chill skitter up his spine. Was he wrong to tell her this? “Arya, I trust you to know that you could never tell anyone this.”

“I’m not stupid Jon. I only said I wished he could.”

“Good, come there’s more to show you.” He said as they made their way out of the darkness.

They shed their coats as they entered Arya’s warm room. Jon noticed that she still had a stunned look on her face but was generally more accepting of his status change that he was. “You’re related to Visenya and Rhaenys, Daemon and Aegon the Unlikely. Do you understand how amazing that is? Dragonstone is yours by right.” She whispers and sighs, “so why then are you joining the night’s watch?”

“My father had, hopefully still has, a brother and a sister, in exile in Essos and I would like to find them.” He had prayed for them every day since he learned the truth. And as each day passed with no information of their whereabouts, he worried that the king’s men had done away with them.

“Your family, you’re leaving to find your family.” Arya said slowly with understanding in her voice.

“Aye, the other half of it. It would be nice to know them. Learn how to be a Targaryen.”

“But you would come back right?”

“Aye, Arya. I can’t say for when, Essos is a big place and we have no leads as to where they could be. But when we do find them, I’ll come back. I promise. But to remember me by-” He reached for the scabbard he’d hid beneath her bed prior and pulled out the thin blade carefully.

“Is that a sword? It’s very skinny.”

“Aye, just like you. I had Mikken smith this. The bravos use swords like this in the free cities. It’s not as heavy as father’s ice, so it can’t take a man’s head clean off, but it can poke him full of holes if you’re quick.”

“I can be.” She replied with a laugh, her eyes overflowing with joy. She took the sword from him and thrust it into the air. It pleased him so that she liked it.

“All the greatest swords have names you know.”

“Like Ice, Dawn, and Dark Sister. Does this have one? Tell me?”

He struggled to keep from laughing as he teased, “Think deeply little sister. It’s your favorite thing.”

A smile spread from one side of her face to the other as the name came to her and all at once the both of them yelled out, “Needle!”

~***~

After saying his goodbyes to Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, and even Sansa. He went last in search of father. The courtyard was buzzing as the King and his court prepared to leave for Kings Landing. Father, from what he heard from Robb, was the King’s newest Hand and both Arya and Sansa would be accompanying him to the capital while Robb would hold Winterfell. His brother was excited at the thought of playing at Lord for a while and Jon was too for him. Robb would make a good lord.

He found out from Jory that father had returned early from a hunting trip with the King and made his way to his solar. Getting there, the guards informed him that his father was busy with a someone, but Jon pleaded to be announced, he didn’t want to be on the Kings road with the King and his court, so this might be the last time he got to say his goodbyes. The guard acquiesced and surprisingly he was allowed in, to the greater surprise of finding Ser Arthur in deep discussion with father.

“Good you’re here. Sit.” The knight said, stiff and without his usual humor while his father moved with a tightness to his features.

“Is something amiss?” Jon asked uncomfortable.

Father sighed and handed him a parchment which he quickly read and found out that the King had promised some disgraced knight of House Mormont a royal pardon to spy on his aunt and uncle.

“gods, do you think he’s with them right now?”

“No, but that’s just one problem. The spider reported to the King that Viserys, with the aid of a wealthy Pentoshi magister, plan to wed Daenerys to a Dothraki Khal in exchange for his screamers.”

“Sell, you mean” Jon spat, frustration boiling under his skin. It was a bad omen to face such setback before they could even venture to look for them. “Who, in their right mind, sells their sister for an army and to a Dothraki Khal of all people?”

Ser Arthur sighed by his side, “That’s the issue Aemon, he might not be in his right mind. I don’t remember much of Viserys, he and Rhaegar are too far apart in age for me to. But I do remember that Aerys never let the boy leave his side. He was convinced that both Rhaegar and his queen were against him and if he could have, he would have probably made the little prince his heir. It hurts me to say but perhaps it’s like father, like son. Their suffering must have been his Duskendale.”

“Then we don’t bother to look for him. We look for her instead, Dothraki screamers be damned. Anything but remaining here and doing nothing.”

“I understand son but If your path crosses with Ser Jorah-”

He interrupted his father, “I’m a bastard of House Stark that fled the night’s watch to be a sellsword then. He couldn’t in good faith prove otherwise.”

“Ser Jorah is in exile for selling slaves. He’s not the sort of man that operates under good faith.”

“Aemon’s right” Ser Arthur finally said, “she’s Prince Rhaegar’s sister, Queen Rhaella’s daughter, a Princess of House Targaryen, and the least we could do is try to rescue her. We’re burning daylight arguing about it Eddard, and we’ll burn more because we have a stop to make before boarding any vessel to Essos.”

“Where?” Jon asked.

“Greywater watch.”


	6. Dany IV

Waiting in the magister’s solar, Dany’s stomach turned as she picked at the tray of cold fruits; persimmons, berries, and figs glazed with honey, while sinking ever deeper into the soft leather chair. Ever since the herald’s visit Viserys had ran himself ragged managing the magister’s affairs. He woke early and came back very late, leaving her with little notice of his whereabouts and when she did get to see him, he spoke in trade deals. She could bear it no longer and demanded to take some burden off him and though he looked skeptical, he agreed and tasked her with managing the accounts and the affairs of the estate while he was away. She shared in his anxieties of being set out to the streets once more. With no heir, the magister’s wealth could be claimed by the Prince’s cousin; an unknown woman to them. 

Losso knocked on the doors to inform her of the issue of the day, and in walked the overseer of the estate, an old woman known only as Moira. Moira was hunched, pale, and ancient, with weathered face and grey streaked brown hair, she wore a white silk dress with a cut that bared an arm and ropes of gold round her neck. She moved to bow, but Dany raised a hand to stop her, “There is no need for that my lady. Please have a seat. Can I get you anything?” 

“I am no lady child, and water if you have any.” She answered with a thin-lipped smile and accented common that sounded Myrish to Dany’s ears. Dany smiled warmly before pouring chilled water into her cup. 

“Who else manages such as estate but a lady? With or without noble blood, my brother and I appreciate your efforts, my lady.”

“You appreciate my efforts and yet your brother would see that my work become yours. Forgive me, child but what exactly do you know of managing an estate?” 

“Nothing, my lady,” Dany replied, grateful for the high desk that hid her wringing hands, “I only wished to offer my assistance in areas of lacking, if there are any. What sort of guests would we be, if we welcomed our host to an estate in disarray?” The woman gave her a strange look and said nothing before passing her a scroll which was a list of the needs of the estate. The stables needed fixing due to rowdy horses, the kitchen cooks and the healer were running out of supplies, and the farm needed an approval of prices before leaving for the markets. She thought for a moment at these requests before asking, “Could I meet with these people, my lady? The ones who work are the ones who know best and I would like to hear from them.”

Losso followed behind as they along a blooming sweet-smelling garden patterned with flowers of many colors, to the kitchens. It was among a cluster of separate buildings, with the pantry and an ice room, kept separate to prevent fires. She and Viserys were granted free rein of the manse but they hardly took a second look at the estate itself save for a garden here and a gallery there. Her skin prickled as she remembered the fear she felt when the magister approached them that blistering Braavosi day by the docks. She heard not a single word he and Viserys shared, instead she stared at the white sails on the masts of his ship, wishing for a moment that he had come to take them home. 

She ordered Losso to stay behind as they entered the kitchens. It was hot, large black pots hung on great rods above open dancing flame on both sides of the room. She could smell pepper and fish and freshly baked bread. Servants stopped to stare at her as they waded through, their collars glistening in the fire light as they whispered to each other in bastard Valyrian, she heard princess and whore, Lysene and a mention of the Sunset kingdoms which gave her pause for not many cared about her father’s kingdom. A potboy was so focused on staring at her, that he dropped the stirring spoon. Dany stopped and picked it up but paused as she found shock across the boy’s features. 

Someone smacked her wrist and the spoon fell with a clang on the floor. “You’ll burn your hand child!” Moira grabbed her hands and dipped them in a bowl of cool water. The potboy looked scared of the old woman and Dany did not understand why until she realized that the spoon was metal and stirring something over the open fire. She looked down at her hands and saw no burns. _Scalding water was one thing._

“I didn’t hold it long enough.” She interrupted Moira chiding of the boy to show her palms, “I see the healer for a salve.” Moira said nothing and continued but Dany paused to apologize to the poor boy for the distress she caused. He only nodded with empty eyes. 

Moira stopped by a fat woman with aged eyes and black hair wearing a soiled apron and chopping a bowl of onions and peppers. Moira snapped her fingers by her ear and the woman looked up with a scowl that quickly turned to a smile when she saw the overseer. They exchanged pleasantries and japes in bastard Valyrian, the cook going as far to nudge Moira with her should and laugh when she rocked and almost fell. It made her smile and think of Doreah. Moira introduced the cook as Tirissa, one of the magister’s oldest workers. Tirissa greeted her in broken common but Dany replied in bastard Valyrian. 

Tirissa as Dany would learn, came to the manse in the retinue of the Prince’s cousin, one of her ten esteemed cooks to be exact. She worked herself free from her debt to the woman and chose to stay after her princess left. A situation that was absurd to Dany, but she held her tongue. Tirissa provided her with an exhaustive list of the kitchen needs from foodstuff to new pots and pans to aprons and garments. That pleased her for the many she’d seen were threadbare. Dany assured the cook that if there was anything she had missed, all she needed to do was send the list to the magister’s solar and Dany would see it provided. Tirissa thanked her with smile and half a loaf of fruitcake that served as her lunch and Dany shared it with Losso as they walked to the farm.

Off the kitchen were the farms, barn, and stables. The farms were seven rectangular plots of green grass but only five were cultivated and managed by a girl Minora and an old man, Garror. They were both in the process of harvesting when they reached them and Dany, eager to learn more about the farms and its keepers, asked to join in the process. Minora, a few years older than herself, was kind and patient in teaching her to harvest wheat and potatoes while informing her of the needs of the farm. The magister sold most of the produce harvested and the rest were either turned to feed for the barn animals or used in the kitchens. Minora wanted to use a plot solely for fruits since the purchasing of certain produce had declined over the year simply because they were not in season. Dany thought it was a good idea, but Garror objected and claimed that the produce was a staple to the Pentoshi diet and still got sold only later. 

The farms produced a great harvest of cabbage, leeks, garlic, onions, potatoes, and wheat, and Dany asked for an account to be taken. If there was truly a decline in purchase, it was wise to venture into other produce, but not too forcefully that it would cause a decline in profits due to lack of sellable harvest. She had the price remain the same; since the magister’s coffers were full and she did not want the Prince to think them greedy, as nothing was theirs. She bid both farm hands a good day. 

The remainder of the plots were for the grazing of the barn animals; four pigs, three fowls, and seven sheep, an endeavor managed by two boys of nine and eleven, Shezdehl and Gamdal, who were also the stable hands. The farm made enough to feed all the barn animals and food scraps from the kitchens were added occasionally. They wanted for nothing, so Dany moved on. The stables were a different tale. The fighting horses, Shadow and Nutmeg, had kicked the pillars so hard that the roof slopped downwards into a pile of rubble. Now with limited holding and uneasy horses, the boys didn’t leave the stables in fear that the horses would bite each other raw or worse. She stepped around the debris to look at the horses, great and beautiful and well-bred destriers with shiny coats of black and brown and reddish brown. It was no surprise they were prized by the magister. She recalled that he invited her once for a ride around Pentos. 

“How do you look after them?” Dany found herself asking as she stroked the muzzle of a soft brown horse. The stable hands were as tall as she was, dressed in decent clothes and collared, but children all the same. They did not meet her eyes and shuffled on their feet, “Sons of the Dothraki.” Shezdehl, the elder, explained in low Valyrian. “The horse god taught the Dothraki to care for horses and the Dothraki taught the world.” 

“do you ride?” Dany asked, remembering the great horse of Khal Drogo.

Gamdal nodded, “Horses must be ridden. Sometimes during a full moon and by the magister’s permission. A man who doesn’t ride is not man.” What did that make Losso? When last was he atop a horse? 

She looked at the destroyed part of the barn, it would take at least a fortnight to raise a new one if she could get to a builder by tomorrow. She asked Moira, “My lady, do you know of any good artisans nearby and if they can begin building as soon as tomorrow?” Moira answered, “I can get a list.” 

And she turned to Losso and asked in bastard Valyrian, “can you set up a night rotation of guards by after supper? I will not have them here night after night.” He nodded. 

“We did not mean for this, but we’ll be better. Whip us. Starve us but give us one more try.” Shezdehl said to her in a strong voice, his eyes hard and jaw firm though his mouth shook. He looked nothing like a boy of eleven. Gamdal stood by his side with the same conviction but his eyes were watery, and he looked very much like child of nine should. She, on the other hand, was halted in disbelief, his words a blow to her core and she stuttered to ask, “Whip you? Starve you? sell you? Why would I do that?” The boys only looked to Moira. 

“During their first year here, a horse was stolen. The magister put a whip to their back in kindness but promised to get rid of them, if anything else happened.” _What sort of kindness is a whip?_

She was reminded again that she had spent less than a year in the estate of Magister Illyrio. “I was not made aware of the magister’s promise and if I were, I am not obliged to keep it. You misunderstand me, you can continue your work, but you have the choice to return to your chambers once the sun is down. I will not have you sleeping on the floor of a stable.” She shut her eyes at the thought of a whip to one of the children’s backs. She’d gone hungry but she’d never had a whip to her back, neither had she been sold. Thought the magister was eager to. If they were in Westeros during the time of her father’s reign, they’d have full bellies and unmarred skin. Dany was sure.

The healer lived and worked in was a sand colored two-towered building behind the manse. Entering the building was a reprieve from the scorching heat of the noon sun as a construction that blew cool air was placed by the door. As she followed Moira’s lead down a cobblestoned hall wide enough to fit a dozen-horse drawn carriage; horses, people, and chests included, she realized that the magister was much wealthier than she and Viserys could ever comprehend. Though the hall continued, they turned to a wooden door and Moira knocked and loud crash sounded from inside the room.

Some moments of waiting passed, and the door was opened by a copper skinned woman with flared nostrils speaking in a cool tone, “I asked to not be disturbed.” She said, though Moira simply pushed into the room. She looked at Dany strangely, with furrowed brows. Her face was familiar. “Come in then. Your head seems to have healed nicely princess.”

Oh, she is the medicine woman. 

Dany entered to see a room cluttered with books and paper, a large bubbling cauldron, shelves of vials with contents that ranged from colorful to clear, and a big far-eye. “Yes, it has healer, I thank you. I might have scorched my hands in the kitchens though while picking up a steel spoon.”

“It was only a surface bruise, nothing serious, I told the magister as such. Metal is a terrible material for kitchen utensils. I’ve told that blasted cook as much. Were you possessed princess?” The healer clinked through some vials in search of something, probably a salve. And Dany took a moment to stare at the papers and tomes on the desk, written on them were sums but more complicated that she knew to be. Arithmetic: Sums of the Dragons, read one. She came to Dany with a small tin in hand, its content the color of butter but smelling strongly of mint. Dany showed her palms and the woman looked back at her in disbelief, “You said you scorched your hands?”

“Yes, I held the spoon for a moment.”

“Not long enough to hurt yourself but keep the tin and apply if your hands start to itch. Speaking of, where is the magister?”

“Away.” Dany answered, before clearing her throat. “He’s away and my brother and I are hoping to keep things in a good shape for his return. Can I know your name healer and your needs?”

She was scribbling onto a paper, “Marisson, is the same brother that hit you? Weren’t you supposed to be married to some Khal by now?”

“Marisson, we’ve reconciled and my betrothal fell through.” At that, Marisson peered up from her scribbling and asked, “and the Lysene whore?”

“Doreah’s gone.”

Marisson gave the paper to her, “those are the supplies I need princess. The magister should have my suppliers in the accounts and-” she leaned in to whisper into Dany’s ear, “good work with him.”

“I... I” Dany stuttered. 

“Where did you think the vial came from? All that’s needed is for you and your brother to petition the Prince. Although not the easiest thing to do but you reached this far.” At her flushed face and heaving chest Marisson smiled, “don’t worry your pretty head princess, your secrets are safe with me.” And then she spoke louder, “alright, I gave the princess the list. You can all leave.”  
And the door was slammed in their faces and blew the torches out. Dany put her hand to her chest to calm her worried breathing and looked down the dark hallway. “Where does this lead?”  
“A library.” Moira answered.

“Are you certain, my lady?” The magister would have mentioned it. He was always eager to display his wealth. 

“Yes child,” Moira replied taking a lit torch from Losso, “The magister locked it up, you see, after the death of his second wife. T’was her special place. I take it you’d like to see it.”

“Stay here.” She ordered Losso before nodding and following the woman into the darkness. 

“What was she like?” Dany asked. “She was a pillow slave, then a bedwarmer, and then his wife,” Viserys had said. “The prince took their union as an affront and ceased all business with Illyrio. But the man cared little for anything then but his Serra.” 

“She was a pretty thing, much like yourself with the old Valyrian coloring, coupled with a love for the just as pretty things. The magister clothed her in gold and silver, gemstones and silk and took her on his many travels. He was a happier man then.”

“What took her?”

“The grey plague. A twice-better killer than greyscale, the healers say. So many died that year.”

They halted to a stop before a great ornate door with dusty hinges that stood at least ten feet high. Moira latched the torch to the mount and began to search and try through a large bunch of black keys. Dany leaned closer to inspect the door, it was cool and dressed in dust beneath her finger, cut deep in solid mass of wood were intricate swirls and sharp lines. The hinges were cool to the touch, they caught the light well and shone a pure silver. Moira muttered curses as she tried key after key after key until she found the one. Dany had no time to keep the key in memory before she pushed the key in, and the lock turned once. The door was solid and thick, and it was only with Moira’s assistance that it moved and opened to a darkness so pungent that with the torch, she could only see a few steps ahead of her. 

“I’ll light it in a moment.” 

“Let me.” Dany took the torch from her and dutifully lit the torches in sight. As the light began to seep through the dark, she noticed dark cloth hung on different parts of the wall. She walked closer to inspect the closest and largest one and realizes that it was a curtain of coarse black silk. She brought it down and exposed a great window behind and reached forth to unlatch it to let the cool breeze in. She repeated the same thing for the remaining windows; ten in total both great and small, taking a good look at the library as she did, it was much larger than her chambers and contained more books than the healers’, twelve large bookshelves filled with many books though some were sparser than the others. 

A book caught her eye with a dragon on its spine and as she reached to bring it out, Moira spoke from behind her, “If you like it, we can send some maids to dust through and you could return later.” 

They walked in silence as they returned to Losso until Dany asked, “how did you come to work for the magister, my lady? Are you paid?”

“I am paying off my debts child. Some of us are and the others just work.”

“What debt?” 

Moira sighed and her eyes turned wistful under the torch’s light, “I ran a pleasure barge just off the Bay. After a storm had nearly destroyed it, I ran to the magister for a loan. You see then, he ran a small bank with a bald plump friend of his. He gave it to me and for a while, my coin purse overflowed, and I paid back in installments, then the pirates came and took my girls and sunk my ship. I could not pay back and so instead I chose service.”

“Surely you worked long enough to have paid back the magister.”

“I owe whatever the magister says I owe and if I were to dispute it, who would come to my aid?”

“The Prince might, he has no love for the magister.”

“Yes, that is true but even granting me audience would threaten his position. You proved to be a bright girl, think of how many like me are servants in his household? In the household of those who elected him?”

At that Dany had no words to reply. 

~***~

She met with almost a dozen artisans the next day; young and old, Pentoshi and otherwise, all talented but most looking to cheat her for the price of work and the supply of wood, and some alluding to other forms of payment they were open too. She laughed as Losso threatened those ones, in crude Dothraki he promised to string up their intestines and feed it to the pigs. By lunch, she had found the right artisan, crude as he was, he was honest and quick with his work. 

She took her lunch with Losso; a delicious meal of garlic mushrooms with warm barley broth and a side of honey dipped figs. As they ate, Losso spoke of horses and khalasars with a joy in his deep dark eyes, he told her of Vaes Dothrak, beneath the Mother of Mountains and by the Womb of the world, the only city of the Dothraki. He spoke of the eastern and western markets that smelled of animal dung and roast spices. When she asked how he knew of all this, he shared that he had been a khalakka; a prince, and when his mother, the Khalessi, learned about the death of his father, the khal, she bravely sent him away with few of her slaves for he was only five namedays old and a ko eager to take his father’s place would kill him. She thought of Rhaegar’s children then, how the Lords Lannister and Stark had ripped them from their mother’s breast, ignoring her pleas, and murdered them. 

After, she and Losso waded through the gardens and now well-lit halls towards the library. The servants were prompt in its cleaning. Losso grunted behind her and she turned to see a look of strain of his features and sweat gathering on his brow, as his shoulders sagged with the weight of the harp. She had offered her help but Losso refused. 

“Tat yer zigereo anna rhellaya ajjin?” At her question, Losso dropped the harp and laughed with full teeth, before he spoke the words back to her in a harsh brogue, almost forceful from his throat. She repeated them back to him twice before receiving a nod of rejection as her answer. He dropped the harp two more times before they reached the library. 

With the noon sun high in the sky and doors wide open, the room looked quite different; decorated with light and sweet-smelling flowers in large marble vases, it welcomed her to stay and never leave. After directing Losso on where to drop the harp and dismissing him, she went in search of her dragon book and found it cleansed from all the dirt. It was a small thing, leather-bound with scratchy, musty paper. She opened to the first page and found the words to be written in what she recognized as Valyrian; lengthy paragraphs accompanied with faded color pictures. Running throughout Essos had given her a skill with tongues, she spoke all variants of the Valyrian dialect and read all too, taught by Viserys but this while familiar was strange. 

From what she could read, it told the tale of a dragonlord named Aurion of silver hair and pale blue eyes, born of two great dragon-rearing Houses of the Valyrian Freehold and a fifth son that spent most of his years in pyramids overseeing his family’s wealth in Valyria’s daughters especially at Qohor where he learned and practiced sorcery. Aurion wed his sister, Eraella and fathered children on her, all of whom grew to be dragon-riders. Aurion survived the Doom while the rest of his family perished. He would march on the burned empire years later with his Qohorish allies proclaiming to be the first Emperor of Valyria. None were ever seen again. 

After reading what she could, she flipped aimlessly through the book and noted that pages were missing, some torn straight from the stems while others were empty save for the shadows of faded ink. She paused at one page, strangely preserved in dark ink was music, and she recognized some notes from Saerena’s teaching. She placed the book on the stand and sat by her harp, peering at the notes with narrowed eyes while trying to strum the strings accordingly. She had a few false tries with some notes falling flat but once she’d reached and passed the crest of the music, her fingers kissed the strings like a lover and the harp’s song made her heart ache with longing. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard or played before. This is a song of love and dragons and loss, she thought, lost once but no more. 

“You’re playing sad songs now” Someone-Viserys- said from behind her and she sharply turned to see him, standing by the door. She ran to embraced him and buried herself into his chest. He smelled like sweat and smoke and flowers. “Did you miss me that much?” 

“You were only gone three days don’t get ahead of yourself.” 

He laughed and gestured to the library, “and you found a library in that time.” 

“Moira said it belonged to Serra, he locked it up after she died.” She took him by the hand and sat him by her desk, “that’s were the sad song is from. It’s a tale of a dragonlord called Aurion.”

“The Emperor of Valyria?” Viserys asked as he flipped through the pages. 

“You know him?”

“Yes, one of the first stories my maester ever taught in High Valyrian, and mother read it to me whenever she was chanced too.” His eyes went glassy. Viserys talked a lot about their father and Rhaegar and Westeros but hardly about their mother, all Dany knew was that she was kind.

“Come brother,” She said as she took the book from him and tucked it away, “tell me of the success of your trip over supper and I’ll tell you of mine.” The sun was already beginning to sink into the Bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tat yer zigereo anna rhellaya ajjin?-> Do you need my help now?


	7. Jon II

They rode into Barrowtown through the eastern gate under the cover of night. After riding hard for eight days, they were two days ahead of the King’s party and had merely three days left of their journey, but Jon was riddled with saddle sores and sick of the taste of roast squirrels. So, the knight who had only flourished since they left Winterfell, agreed to stop at the Barrowtown inn for the night. 

Finding an inn was no easy task though, many were filled and the ones that weren’t, had no kennels to house Ghost for the night. Ser Arthur finally found an inn willing to do both, ran by an old fat man with a crooked nose and greedy eyes that never left the knights purse. He dismounted as they reached the stable, an old rickety shed with a sloping roof that looked like it would fall at the slightest puff of breath. The stable boy was not older than ten and two, hairless freckled face and blue-eyed, yet he handled their mares with care, stroking their muzzles stacking up hay for their supper, and filled their troughs with water. Jon waited till he was done before thanking him and slipping two gold dragons into his hand.

He winced with every step he took and patted his breeches for the ointment the knight had provided to ease his sores. Finding it, he led Ghost carefully to the back of the inn to the kennel. It wasn’t much of a kennel, just a cluster of dog-less cages, old and tight-fitting with crying hinges and iron bars painted black to hide the rust. The direwolf too whined at the sight and leaned his large head on Jon’s thigh.

“I know it’s tight but it’s just for a night” He whispered to the wolf as he stroked his ears and muzzle. “You’ll go roaming in the woods tomorrow, free to hunt as you please. I promise.” Jon kissed his head and Ghost’s rough tongue licked at his fingers.

He met the knight just outside the inn by the double doors, speaking to a woman Jon presumed was the barmaid. “No fuss?” Ser Arthur asked as she left, and Jon nodded. “Aye, it’s a pity of a kennel but it’ll do for tonight.” They entered and settle on the bench closest to the stairs that led to the chambers. He stood wand walked to the barmaid to ask for supper while he waited, Jon looked around the drab inside of the inn. It reeked of stale food and strongwine, but it was a welcome one to the smell of shit and dirt that he was accustomed too. Seven long benches were scattered on the floor with matching wood chairs and all were empty save for two; the one they sat at, and the one in the corner of the room where armored men drank and played cards while whores straddled their legs and kissed at their chins and cheeks. One winked at his direction, pink tongue sliding with intent across her lips, and he realized that he had stared too long in their direction. He quickly looked away; too tired for a fight.

The woman returned with a metal tray holding two steaming bowls and he thanked her. Sitting down on the bench, the knight grabbed a bowl and spoon, and said to him before diving in. “Eat up and get your rest lad. If we ride hard enough, we can get there a day sooner.” Jon’s backside throbbed at the thought of hard riding as he took a spoon of the meal. It was beef and barley stew fresh out of the pot and a heel of hard bread with a slice of cheese. He rushed through the meal, savoring nothing but grateful for something other than stringy squirrel meat. 

They made it to the room. He was about to collapse into the soft bed when the knight reminded him of his saddle sores, murmuring something as he stripped about how he would pay double if he slept instead of tending to them. With a pained groan, he shed his clothes and wiped his body down with a rag dipped in cold water before rubbing the salve on his backside, hissing and wincing all the way through.

~***~

In Winterfell, he woke up early to train with Ser Arthur or the help the knight with butcher work. Time on the road trained him to wake earlier, almost as soon as the sun was up and so, despite the softness of the bed beneath him, Jon was awake. He tried and failed to return to sleep but his body coupled with Ser Arthur’s snores, and the noises of others both beyond their doors and outside the windows did not allow it. So, he stood with care, the feeling returning to his entire body, with an agenda to complete before they set out.

His hair was such a nest of dirt and dust, he smiled at the mirror for he reminded himself of Arya. He stared at the mirror for longer though trying to see how he resembled Prince Rhaegar. Ser Arthur and father both mentioned the long hair, which he had but the knight also mentioned that his eyes were a deep dark purple. As he grew older, all people saw was Ned Stark, and they never failed to mention it. It was the reason Arya also thought she was a bastard like him till he set her straight. _Like he was._ He widened his eyes and peered into the mirror, but even in the candlelight he could not see it. Mayhaps, if he had grown up surrounded with purple eyes. _He hoped Daenerys would see it_.

He cleaned the hair with a dab of soap, scraping his fingers on his scalp, then he tied the wet hair back and cleaned himself; mouth and body. When he was done, the knight was still asleep, so he rubbed another layer of the salve with less hissing and wincing, patted his hair half dry with an old tunic, put on his clothes and his boots, and left the room with the basin in hand. Reaching down the stairs, he passed the barmaid wiping down the benches, and stopped to ask if they provided hot water, and finding out they did, he paid for the basin to be filled. She offered to send another to return it to the room, but Jon declined politely and did it himself. 

He found Ghost outside the inn, laid on his belly while the early meagre flow of people through the square stared in awe and fear at the white wolf. He trotted to Jon as soon as he got the down the stairs and stood to stretch, paws on his tunic, to sniff and lick at his mouth and neck. The fur on his neck and around his mouth was as red as his eyes. Calf’s blood. Tangy and hot, Jon remembered, sinking teeth in supple skin, sweet flesh, and the wailing moos of its mother; Jon tasted it. Jon enjoyed it.

“You couldn’t just wait till morning, could you?” Jon teased, patting and squeezing his furry face with Ghost turning side to side, tongue out and trying to bite his fingers. The wolf caught hold of one and grazed his sharp teeth along the ridges and cuts across his skin, never once drawing blood. “Let’s check on the horses before going to pay the poor fellow.”

The horses were well. His, aptly named Night for his shiny dark coat and mane, was glad to see him. Night was neighing and bucking at the flimsy door as he approached. The other horses in the stable did the same but it was from fear of Ghost by his side. Night had no fear of Ghost, only a mild irritation that rang false to Jon. He patted his snout, peaking into his holding to find fresh hay and water provided. He slipped through the door, making sure it was locked behind him, to cleanse the blood off Ghost’s fur with the water. The horse was not pleased and was quick to push his out with his snout. He checked Ser Arthur’s mount too; a brown steed, he lifted his head to look at them with bored eyes before returning to his hay.

~***~

He and Ghost went deeper into the town, guided only by a faint recognition of stalls and shops. Everything looked different beneath the sun. Barrowtown was a cluster of wooden structures that sat roundabout a large barrow-hill with a keep sat on it. He spied a banner of two rusted longaxes with crossed blacks shafts and a crown betwixt on yellow from one of the keep’s towers. It was a busier city than Winter town and its streets were much wider and well-made, up to five carriages could move side by side without an accident.

As stalls opened and more people came out of their homes and he realized that there was one more difference between Winter town and Barrowtown. The people of Barrowtown were not familiar with direwolves. They stared at the wolf with expressions stuck with fear. Mothers clutched to their children and in men’s hands, he spied steel. Ghost moved closer and kept pace with him, the market opening for their passage.

He stopped at a small fruit stall with apples and melons on display. He was inspecting one for bruises and worms when someone bumped into him. He turned to face a large basket brimming with fruits and vegetables. “Pardon me, I’ll drop this.” The person said. They dropped the basket, and it was the stable-boy. “What would you like to buy.” The boy said before looking at him, shock flashing on his freckled face.

“Morning ser, is there something wrong with the horses?” The boy asked chewing at his lip. 

“I’m not a knight and they’re fine, thank you.” Jon assured and pointed to the fruits that Ghost was sniffing at, “I just wanted some fruits.”

“Oh” The boy said, “which ones?”

“You knew a lot about horses last night. Which ones do you feed them?”

“Old Coren would sooner fight a other than part with his coins, they only eat hay. Horses like melons, peas, apples, cabbages too. I should have a bag of those...” The boy searched his stall but came up empty with peas, “must have boiled ‘em.” 

Jon pointed to some apples and a small melon and the boy gathered them. “How do you know so much about horses?” Jon asked.

“My Pa used to be a stable hand too, in the keep on the hill. Then he went to war and ne’er came back. Just ma, Rud, myself, and Lyla now.”

Jon swallowed hard watching the boy count the coins, “which war?”

“That one…” He paused his counting and thought, “with those fuckers that worship fish.” Ah, the Greyjoy rebellion. “Lyla, leave it alone!”

Jon turned to see a little lass poking Ghost’s face. She was not more than six namedays old and wore a moss colored dress and a woolen hat to match, that hid most of her hair save for two twin braids that fell to her shoulders. “It’s okay” Jon assured the boy, “Ghost won’t harm anyone.” _Unless I say so,_ something dark whispered and he shook it away.

The boy done with the counting, narrowed his eyes at Jon, “I’ve never known wolves to not harm, and that one is too large a wolf and a strange looking one too.” 

At tug at his breeches moved his attention downwards, to the little girl by his side with a smile on her freckled face that showed two missing front teeth. “Can I pet that dog?”

“Yes, but he’s not a dog.” Jon replied, sinking to her eye-level, “he’s a direwolf.” He snarled, and Ghost gave a small howl with him at the end, and lass giggled.

“A direwolf” She repeated, her face twisting into a snarl too before she quickly left his side for Ghost’s and scratched at his muzzle. Always a lover of attention, the direwolf leaned closer to rest his large head on her shoulders and received kisses for it. “He likes it behind his ears and under his chin” Jon advised, and she followed, soon the wolf was beating his tail on the ground with excitement.

With this display, the other children ventured out from the surrounding stalls, their mothers standing up to watch Jon with narrowed eyes. He smiled a polite smile at them and soon Ghost was swarmed with tiny hands that pulled and stroked and petted at his entire body. If the attention hurt, Ghost did not show it, instead he reveled in it and ate the snacks the little ones brought with them; honeyed cakes and scraps of beef and sometimes turnips.

“I’m Jon,” He introduced, feeling silly that he had not done so earlier. “Does anyone around here rear animals, hens, calves, pigs?”

The boy snapped out from his awe-struck stare at Ghost, shaking his head before answering, “Lucas. Everyone round here has a hen or two, for eggs, but pigs and cows that Seamas just down the road. You can’t miss him.”

“Thank you. Could Ghost and I be granted our leave, Lyla?” He asked the girl and the children equally, and they shook their heads with fervor at his request. She though, looked at him and then back at Ghost, multiple times before answering, “I guess so…will you come back?” This was the only route he knew to the inn and the only one he wanted to use.

“Yes, I will.” He assured her, and the other little ones. She nodded and said to them with an authority in her voice, “Let’s leave Ghost alone. He’s coming back.”

“How do you know he ain’t lying?” A boy asked with a thumb in his mouth. That stumped Lyla and she looked at him immediately.

“I swear it to you Lyla and the children of Barrowtown, that Ghost and I will return to this stall at a later time today.”

“Are you a knight?” One asked, while another squeaked for him to swear by the old gods, and Jon did as they asked. Satisfied with his oath, they took turns to give Ghost one last scratch, kiss, or stroke before scattering back to their mother’s arms. Lyla, who was the last, kissed Ghost’s head, and skipped to her brothers’.

~***~

Lucas had been right, as Jon and Ghost walked down the large road, the farm was as obvious as the sun itself. The land was large and as they passed through the gates, the grazing cows mooed at Ghost before huddling together as far from him as they could. They remembered him and Jon remembered them, a quick look and he spotted the one whose calf they ate in their midst. She was a beautiful soft brown cow with two small spiral horns atop her head. She was grazing lowly, surrounded by calves of brown, black, and white coats. 

He trusted Ghost not to eat one right there and then, and yet he felt like the cows would want to avenge their fallen. They couldn’t do much, but the bulls could hurt the direwolf. So, along with Ghost, he crossed the green grass in search of a farm-hand and found one feeding the pigs, a tall brown-haired girl, with a swaddle cloth across her chest.

“Good day,” He greeted as he approached.

“Good morrow,” She turning to look at him and her eyes moved to Ghost as well. The cannister of feed dropped from her hand attracting the pigs, and her face twisted into a fury. “That beast, is it yours?” She demanded.

“Yes, he is,” Jon defended. “I’m here to pay for whatever damage he made last night.”

“It scared my pa!” She began to say before a stuttering cry came from the swaddle. She hushed the babe for a time before turning back to him and whispering, “tore into the wood of the barn and ate a calf. We woke to blood everywhere and a crying mother, that won’t milk anymore! Do you know exactly what it has cost us?”

Jon cringed and rubbed the back of his neck. He came with the intention of just paying for a calf. “A cow and a calf?” He sighed, “I’m sorry for the damages. What can I do to make amends?”

“Every animal and crop on the land is accounted for by the Lady of Barrow Hall,” she said stiffly. “It’s by the Lady’s grace and fortune that we tend it. If you’re are true about amending this mess, submit yourself and that beast of yours to her judgement in place of my pa.”

He nodded in understanding, “I will. Which way to Barrow Hall?”

The thought of sending Ghost back to the knight as proof of safety passed through his mind, as he climbed the hill towards the keep, but Ghost was the ‘guilty’, and at least with Ghost, if things were to go askew, he had a chance to escape. The sun was high in the sky when he reached the top of the hill, he breathed deeply, the cool air filling his chest with the thought of running back, to the inn, to his horse, to Ser Arthur, as fast as his legs would take him. No one knew him here, and no one would remember him. He gave his word to the farmhand, _but did she believe him?_ Her eyes did not say so. If he turned back, he would be one day closer to meeting Howland Reed and saving Daenerys from the Dothraki.

But what would Lord Stark say? _When did I become like the wind, here and there but never true?_ And what of Prince Rhaegar, the father he never got the chance to know? “He always did what needed to be done,” Ser Arthur had told him one night under stars and by crackling fire, “No matter how difficult it was. No matter the harm to his person.” 

If he ran, he would be neither Jon the Bastard nor Aemon the Prince, and with that, he carried on.


	8. Viserys II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We get a bit of a closer look to Viserys.

He was out the manse once the sun was up, towards the bay usually but sometimes he visited the markets first. Today was such a day, he was atop his usual horse; a large chestnut stallion affectionately named Honey for his amber mane with the largest servants behind him on horses of their own. Pentos looked the same but no less beautiful. The sun rose a bright red from the dark waters of the bay, and as it ascended, it turned the sky into a mural of purples and scarlets before settling on a warm orange with splotches of pink. He savored the coolness of the morning, it never lasted long.

Honey trotted through the market with ease, parting a river of shimmering metal that adorned the necks of the servants. Once the magister explained to him, on their way to a feast, that servants could be told apart by the forging of their collars. The iron and copper collared servants often belonged to merchants with little wealth. The bronze and silver ones mostly belonged to wealthier merchants on the cusp of rising through their stations. The gold collared servants always belonged to the wealthiest of merchants and magisters. It was even rumored that the servants of the Prince’s household wore collars of gold studded with gemstones.

He tightened his hold on the reins as he thought to their coming meeting. All he knew from the man came from the magister, who had surprisingly spoken kindly of him despite the Prince’s hinderance to his growing wealth. Though, Viserys thought, the Prince’s admonishment of the magister did little to quell the flocks of elite that conducted business with him. It would have been different in Westeros, he thought, there his father’s words were law as the kings before him were. It would have—it should be the same. 

_How Beggar King?_ Something asked. And though he scowled at the title, he whispered. “An army. I’d need an army.”

It continued. _You had one, Beggar King._ _The horselord and his barbarians would have crowned you. That fat fool and his coin purse would have bought you armies and beneath your heel, the usurper and his dogs would be crushed to fine sand! Oiled by the High Septon, you would rise to be King Viserys of House —Targaryen, Second of his name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And you gave that up…_

“The price was too steep.” He said, for the first time out loud. The servants looked at him but said nothing. In his mind’s eye he saw Dany sat, still as marble, her fingers bone white wrapped around a gemmed chalice brimming with the finest wine. _“I don’t want to be his queen,” she pleaded. “I want to go home.”_ She’d looked so beautiful in her fear, just like mother.

_You are her King_ _and she your faithful servant!_ It argued back and he gripped Honey’s reigns tighter lest he fall. They had reached the market district and all around them it woke. _Did the second Daenerys not do as her King and Lord brother bid? Forsake whatever affection she held for the Blackfyre to bring the Dornish to heel._

“To a Dornish Prince of House Martell.” Vis reminded himself…it was he afterall that ruled his mind and body. “Not a smelly horsefucker with little regard for nobility and the laws of kings.” The Khal was great as the magister promised, taller than any man that night yet he moved light on his feet, his wealth was second only to the magister’s, yet it was more than any horselord could have. His manse was attended by gold collared slaves, men, women, and children, dancing and serving the night away.

Dany later told him that she felt like one too. _Does it matter? Is a man not the Lord of his household? What use are the details of a marriage if duties are fulfilled? She’s yours to command and yours alone to use._

“To protect.” That’s what mother said, with a cold hand to his cheek and tears in her fading eyes. He and Rhaegar were born too far apart to be truly siblings, and his children were too young. All he knew of companions were his mother and her ladies, and his father who he rarely saw. _“He’s very busy,” mother would say, “a King’s job is not an easy one.”_

There were better suitors for Dany than a horselord. If they were in Westeros, she might have wed Rhaegar’s son, himself, or an heir to a great house, even with where they stood, she was still worth much more, there were magisters and archons, sons of great families with ties to the Valyrian freehold and the Iron Bank. The thought reminded him of a certain merchant, and he steered Honey from the main market path, looking back once to make sure the servants were following.

But with great shame, Vis battled everyday with the decisions he’d made. Perhaps she would have come to care for the Khal, surely her worries would fade when she had given him a son and heirs, was she different from the ladies and princesses of Westeros that left their homes and lands for the unfamiliar?

He chuckled bitterly as his head began to hurt; while he wasted away haggling with sweet-smelling magisters and running through half formed plans, the usurper sat on his throne with a queen, heirs, and alliances. He had none of that. Not even word of what went on across the narrow. That was the biggest obstacle to killing the magister, his informants. 

He slowed once they reached the merchant’s shop. A structure that spanned far ahead and farther behind, held erect by wood and draped in soft silk of many colors to keep the heat out. Large tables held all manner of goods, from clothing of silk and cotton, to leather wear, metalwork, jewels, and baked honeyed meal. He dismounted Honey, one hand on his reins and the other rummaging through the pockets of his pants for a cinnamon stick. He found one and the horse neighed with excitement, its snorts lifting the loose hair from his face. “You’ve been good,” he whispered to the beast, keeping the stick out of biting range to break it. Honey was a good beast and only lipped his palms as opposed to some unmannered horses that left slobber.

He dusted his hands on his pants just in time for a servant to rush to him. There were three in number for this one section: two girls and one boy, assisting the merchants to the sides of him. How fortunate it was that it was the boy he remembered, bronze skinned and not older than ten and two with wide almond eyes and long black hair.

“Aerano.” He greeted the boy who had a smile on his face as he took hold of Honey’s reins, reaching to stroke his mane. “Is the merchant in?” Viserys didn’t care for the man’s name, only what he owed. Aerano’s eyes widened and Vis wondered whether he was going to lie.

“Yes, my lord.” The boy finally answered. “I-I shall announce your coming.”

Vis stopped him before he could enter. “Did he lose all his wealth overnight that he now requires shop boys to treat with guests? His guards will do that. You just see it to it that the horses get some water in them.”

Aerano bowed and lead Honey and the horses to a rack, off to the left of the stall.

The merchant was a proud man and his manse showed it. The great doors boasted a richly colored likeness of his trading vessels, long blush settees littered the room covered in gold threaded pillows with ships sewn into both faces, and large painting of the sea adorned each wall, so lifelike that Vis half expected the blue green waves to slosh out from the gilded corners of the frame. Once things were settled, he hoped to get someone well skilled to create portraits of himself and Dany.

One of the guards that attended to him at the gates returned to inform him that the magister would be out soon. Following closely behind were three girls younger than Dany, dressed in blue cotton dresses with trays in their arms. Together they prepared the shiny table of ebony wood with food, careful of the ship figurines at the center.

The first platter contained a bowl of cold fruits—persimmons, berries, figs, and apricots, smaller bowls of spiced soft cheese garnished with colored edible flowers, butter, and berry jams, with a large loaf of nutty bread at the center. The second held roast fish, dripping with olive oils and spices with a bowl of fresh rice by the side with a sauce of boiled fruit. And the last contained smelled like spicy rum in an amber bottle, accompanied with honeyed wine in flagon, and a large bowl of candied ginger and roast nuts.

It was no wonder the man was bursting out of his robes.

Vis indulged first on the cold fruits, a welcome reprieve from the afternoon sun, and then sampled a piece of bread with the soft cheese. He wouldn’t risk sluggishness, so he passed up on the second platter but nursed honeyed wine with a bit of the spiced rum added. After a while of waiting, the curtains pulled apart to reveal the merchant, smiling and richly robed in green.

“My Lord,” the man greeted in a clumsy and exaggerated bow before taking careful strides towards him. A strong fragrance clung to him, perhaps once sweet but now it was cloying, Vis took more swallows of the wine to keep from retching.

“It pleases me that you’re enjoying the wine, My Lord.” The magister said as a servant poured some out for him. He took hearty gulp, smacked his mouth, and picked at the roast fish. Sopping the spices and oil with some bread. “A wiser man once said to me that there was no finer pleasure in life than good wine and good food.”

“Yet, none of those pleasures come cheap. Not wine. Not food. Not women. You know why I’m here magister, I’ve been gracious enough—”

“Most gracious,” the magister laughed. “How can one be gracious with what he does not own? Why would a dead man require coin? What pleasures can he purchase with it?”

Viserys said nothing.

The man’s smile was full teeth. “Did you think I did not know? Illyrio had never been one to take so much as a day away from his business. Do you think we who knew him longer are fools? Better yet, Pentos is a small city boy. Word has spread of Illyrio’s death. The Prince will take what is his soon, I’m hope you and your sister enjoyed your moment of his queer fascination.”

Vis watched his smile grow smugger. “You’re a fool if you believe you have no coin to pay. I personally look forward to how the Prince will let his wrath down on the likes of you, amassing your wealth from business with Illyrio. Will Vogyrio be able to save you?”

The magister’s face faltered slightly, and Vis’s smile turned wicked. So the debt collector was right...He rose from the settee, not once looking away. “Pentos is a small place, magister.”

“Y-y-you are nothing but a beggar with bold words!” The man screamed, shaking so violently that his chalice spilled red over the silver platter. “Less than the shadow of a snake! Threaten me again boy and I’ll see that you meet a crueler fate that your mad father did. Perhaps I’ll keep your sister afterwards, no doubt many would pay in bags of gold to bed the last Targaryen, once I’ve had my fill of her of course.” 

Vis towered the magister menacingly, his fingers grew slick wrapped so tight around the sword hilt. “I’ll kill you for that.” He whispered. Up this close, he smelled the pungent odors beneath the doused perfume, sweat and wine and greed. The magister puffed like a bird, smug and sure One swift flick and Vis could take off his head. Or better yet take each finger and toe off one after the other. _What then? What would happen to Dany?_

No, he would be cautious.

He left the manse quickly not trusting him new calm. While headed straight for Honey, he noticed a pair of fat Oxen grazing on hay, with a cart just a few paces away. He took hesitant steps towards them, minding their bone-white horns. “Cut them loose,” he heard himself say. The men looked surprised but did as he asked until a cry came. “Stop!” It was Aerano, the boy ran towards them with a pail and rag in hand, fat tears in his eyes.

“Continue,” he bit out, and turned his attention to the boy. “Can you lead a cart?”

“Yes, but—”

“Good, you’ll come with me then.” Aerano froze with terror. Vis got on Honey and rounded on the boy. He gulped and got to work, ridding himself of the pail and rag. 

They’d led them to the street, Aerano at the helm with the servants following atop horses, when the merchant ran out. “Stop! Stop! Thief!” He wailed, he and his guards running towards them, Honey leapt into their path so quickly that the man fell face first into the ground. 

He remained on the ground, red faced and utterly pathetic, whimpering like a day-old babe. They’d garnered an audience and oh, what a show it would make if Honey stomped on his legs. Instead, Vis spat at him. “I’ll be back for the debts magister, you best prepare”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long year...and I apologize for disappearing.Hope y'all are keeping safe, as well as loved ones


	9. Jon III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble in Barrow-town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back again. I hope you enjoy this.

**JON**

He climbed wooden steps, passed an old windmill, and a grassy courtyard before reaching the gates of Barrow Hall. They were wooden, open, and not too large. Yellow banners printed with the longaxes and crown of the House Dustin lined the walls. Upon entering, he was greeted with the awe-struck gaze of merchants, servants, and common folk.

There's a queue at the mouth of the keep and Jon joins it. He feels eyes all around his, the armored men are not welcoming, the servants are avoidant, but a gaggle of maids—brown haired and plain faced—make eyes at him. When they pass his by, their whispers mention Winterfell and Stark. He kicks his boot, so much for being unknown.

The queue had barely moved when a pair of landless knights approach him, smelling strongly of drink, one had a jester’s cap on his head. “And what are you s’pposed to be boy? With that beast at your hip.” The first barks, younger looking than the second, despite the scar that ran across his face and left him with half a brow. Younger or older, the knight was bold to try and snatch up Jon’s hair. Jon stepped back.

Ghost snarled low, raised on his hunches, and baring teeth. Jon’s left hand grazed his fur, and he was whole in their rage. Through gritted teeth, he answered. “I’m no one’s boy Ser. I’m here to seek audience with the Lady Dustin for damages caused to her farm. The one overseen by old man Seamus.”

“You look a lot like a Stark,” the second slurred, his teeth as black as his unkept beard, that left an odor of something decomposing and strong drink. “Won’t you tell us your name little lordling?”

“Bastard.” The first corrected with a sneer. “If he were a lordling, this place would be run with grey wolves and fancy horses.”

Without provocation, the second drew his blade to Jon’s chest and spat. “Get out the queue bastard!” They’d made an audience of the courtyard now. Jon took one step out of the line. He continued. “So, this is Seamus’ demon dog then! The old fool wouldn’t stop prattling even with a cracked skull. Bring the beast closer boy! And I’ll let you run back to Winterfell.” His smile was feral, and his eyes were alight with a sick pleasure.

The second knight closed in and Jon wished he had his sword; his thoughts momentarily went to the surely worried knight with it at the inn. He’d get some cruel punishment for this if he made it out alive. He chuckled at that, of course he would.

“What’s the jape about bastard?” The first taunted, ruining Jon’s mood.

“I can’t say ser, I’m not the one in motley.” The man snarled and Jon spun from the thrust of his sword. Nearing only to swing the heavy fruit satchel against the blunt side of the blade. He tried this thrice before succeeding to rid the knight of it. Jon pushed his weight on the man’s person and brought him to his knees.

The stubborn fool was persistent, thrashing about and hitting with his fist even as he laid on the ground. Jon dodged many times, trying to restrain him. It could be no true fight against a drunk man. The man found an aim in short succession, first his face and then his eye, a sharp pain shot through. That did it. Jon growled and finally hit back, hard. First at his elbows, then his chest, and finally his face, again and again and again till his neck was limp though his chest heaved. His fruits were crushed. 

A crunch and pop sounded behind him, followed closely by a piercing wail. Jon took up the sword where it had landed and turned to find Ghost on the younger knight, the boy was trembling. His elbow was unnaturally bent, and his once leather breeches were stained a dull ruby where the direwolf’s teeth had sunk through. Jon walked up to him; and raised the sword to his neck. “Where’s the steward of the keep?”

The boy made no sense between sobs and whimpers and snot running into his mouth, but he pointed to the corner of the keep where a hunched man stood, in finer clothes than both knights, with longaxes and a crown stitched on a yellow field near his heart. “Many thanks.”

The steward’s mouth was pressed into a thin line, his eyes were grim and cold. He looked at Jon and then at Ghost. “The Lady would prefer if the beast was left outside the keep.”

Did she take him for a fool? “That cannot be. Ghost proves old man Seamus’ innocence.”

The steward sneered at his words. “Is this how the Starks of Winterfell would repay our years of fealty? Setting a bastard and his beast loose on her lands, on her knights, in the safety of her keep no less.”

Jon took a step forward. “Winterfell has nothing to do with this and neither does my Lord Father. Take me to her Lady. Now.” His tone left no room for bickering though the man looked like he had much more to say. Thankfully, he held his tongue. The keep was large, but most of it was forlorn. The only used portions were three storied. 

The deeper the man led them, the more restless they grew. His ears stuck straight up, his eyes snapped from corner to the other, and his teeth remained bared. Jon himself felt the walls closing in, as they were led through dark hallways after dark hallway, surrounded by knights that jeered and looked on him with contempt and wicked malice. What was he doing here? To prove old man Seamus’ innocence, to compensate as much as he could. Jon held on tighter to the sword till they reached a great door flanked at both ends by knights. He sent a prayer to the old gods when they were granted entry.

The room was half the size of his father’s solar, cold though the fireplace roared, and decorated modestly, bare as nobility went, save for the tapestries hanging on the walls of the Lady’s personal banner, the longaxes and crown of House Dustin quartered with a gilded horse head of House Rsywell. The only furniture of note was the great oak table that spanned almost the length of the room sitting at the center, with the Lady at the head dressed in mourning black.

“My Lady, the bastard.” The steward announced, going into a bow.

“You may leave us Robart.” The steward hurried out and Jon remained standing, his eyes never leaving the Lady, though hers moved to Ghost. “So, this is the beast you unleashed on my farm. A direwolf, this far south. Strange times. Do take a seat. Do you take wine?”

He proceeded with careful caution and chose the chair farthest from her that gave no insult. Though he had a thirst, he rejected the wine. He needed to keep a clear head. So, he sat there, Ghost alert as his side, aware of her eyes roving over his form. When she spoke again, she looked like she had sucked on a lemon. “Yet another bastard that closely resembles his sire. How old are you?”

“Fourteen.” Jon replied, shifting on his seat. “My Lady– “

She chuckled. “Just as old as your true-born brother then. Men are men in times of war, even your father beneath all his stiffness and honor. Tell me was your mother a whore or was she a miller’s wife?”

“Lord Stark never informed me of her, my Lady.” Jon answered, fisting his breeches with both hands.

She took a sip of her wine. “Catelyn Tully must be besides herself, her whelps by all account are Tully in coloring. Old gods take me, what I wouldn’t give for Brandon to see this, Lord Rickard and his grey rat too. How they’d take it, I wonder. Eddard’s seed is too weak to make his true-born children Starks, surely Brandon’s wouldn’t have…”

Jon’s eyes narrowed at her insult, though he was caught off-guard by her mentioning of Catelyn Tully. The Lady’s name dripped with hate a thousand-fold greater than what Winterfell’s lady had for him. Why? He wondered. And for what purpose? Whatever it was, it did not concern him. His wounded eye throbbed, his vision was either dimming or the sun was getting lower. Whichever it was, Jon was eager to leave Barrow town behind. “My Lady, I must beg your forgiveness for the damage to your farm—”

“And my knights?” She interrupted, wide-eyed and sitting taller. “Will you not beg for my forgiveness for the goodmen, you and your beast ravaged? I doubt they’ll see the next moon in the state you’ve left them. What would I tell their families? The ones that rely on their provisions.”

“No, my lady. I cannot.” He said, frank. “I came peacefully, and your knights paid me back in violence. If I were a weaker man, I’d be dead. Would you have sought my Lord Father’s forgiveness then? Made known where and how I perished?”

Her calm disdain fractured, and she rose with an outburst. A finger pointed at him. “You insolent bastard! It’s no wonder Catelyn Tully rid Winterfell of your presence. You’re a bold one to raise yourself higher than your station, perhaps that’s what your whore mother hoped for when she spread her legs for Lord Eddard. No matter, I will do what he failed to do. I will teach you a lesson. Guards!”

He stood quickly, and swiveled to face the doors, sword in hand. Armored men rushed into the room, surrounding him. The Lady spoke from behind. “When you’re whipped pink, I’ll send you to the wall to be among your fellow thieves and rapists and murderers and schemers.” 

He parried and blocked and stabbed but there were too many, and soon he was seized—by the twisting of his arm and the kicking of his legs from beneath. Jon fell on his face with a resounding thud, he jerked in pain, felt warmth ooze from his wounded eye. He had no time to think on that though, the snapping of jaws rang in his ears and he tried to look up, to warn Ghost to flee, but a knight had a knee to his neck and another to back. He couldn't breathe.

Ghost, he reached out through his mind and heart, awake for once. He felt the wolf’s rage first, Ghost was fighting back—the snap of a neck in his jaws, the gust of warm blood that filled his mouth. Jon felt exalted… but then came the pain, Jon’s pain stabbed boy and wolf and Ghost howled. The direwolf wanted to fix it, to make it go away, but he was just one wolf. Jon begged though his eyes grew heavier.

Leave! Run! Find Ser Arthur!

The last thing he heard was the loud gasp of Lady Dustin followed by the orders of a knight…to kill on sight.


	10. Viserys III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viserys learns about the benefits of sharing information and gains support from unsavory allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to planning and my brain not working things out as quickly as I would prefer, the first 2/3rds of the chapter takes place before Dany IV, and the last part occurs after the ending of Dany IV. Same day actually. So some of the dialogue is just copy pasted from Vis' p.o.v.

“My Prince.” Zoqhoq zo Gaek, the debt collector, welcomed him with pinched features and a rigid posture. Vis nodded and turned to instruct his guards and Aerano to rest. They were just returning from the bay and the cart was full of goods, among which Vis selected a cask of spiced wine to share with the debt collector.

“I didn’t know the magister to own oxen or a cart.” Zoqhoq remarks as they take their seats. Vis takes a quick look around the room as he drops the book of accounts before the man. Apart from the settees that are plush and soft and colorful, the room is modestly decorated save for the bronze harpy that sits at the center of the table. As he flips through the books, a servant hurries in with a tray of chalices and serves them from the cask, the sinking sun reflects on her copper collar as she leaves.

Zoqhoq chuckled as he flipped through. “The accounts are settled quite well, my Prince. Magister Illyrio is proved right with his gamble on your eventual ascension to your father’s throne. I wonder though why the debt collecting was not left to me. I hope I have not caused any offense.”

“None at all.” Viserys replied, taking a sip. The silver was cool to touch but the wine burned all the way to his belly. He licked his lips and chose his words carefully. “There are no doubts Zoqhoq, that you were sharp-witted, careful, and generally underutilized by the magister. Now you have more time to focus on growing your estate…which if I recall correctly is focused on textiles? A lucrative pursuit.”

The man leaned into his settee with narrowed eyes. “Yes, it is. If I will no longer be returning to my post, then why the visit?” 

“It is no secret that you were the magister’s eyes and ears regarding…rare information about the wealthy in the city. I only need to know who Vogyrio is.”

The man sat a bit taller then, a knowing grin on his face as he spoke. “Ah, all men are bees, and the city is a hive with news of Vogyrio. His history is as rich as yours, my Prince, his blood date back to the empire of Old Ghis. He descends from an ancient ruling family of Mereen, the House of Pahl, one of the richest families in the region. He’s the youngest son, just as you, and from what rumors have reached my ears, he hopes to create an empire outside of Slaver’s bay. An empire that could sturdily begin with a manse as wealthy as Magister Illyrio’s.” The debt collector grew unusually quiet towards the end, sipping from his chalice, light brown eyes glazed over. 

Strange. “Is the council not in support of this?” Vis asks.

Zoqhoq blew out a breath and when he spoke, his voice was tight. “Most are, but a few are wise to the wrath of Braavos. There is no doubt that Braavos will not take kindly to Pentos accepting Vogyrio’s petition. There is as much doubt that Vogyrio will do away with the practices of Slaver’s Bay.”

Of course, Zoqhoq would know that. Before last year’s plague of Mereen, his family equaled a smaller noble house of Westeros. Till the plague wiped them all out, bond and free, leaving him the sole survivor. Viserys felt no pity for him, slavery was as rank as the men who practiced it. _If there are gods, you’ll be wiped out too._

“Pentos flouts freebond servants but Mereen deals with a truer slavery. Braavos will look away for so long.” Vis said nothing for a moment, then he swallowed his apprehension and asked. “Will the conclusion be reached after we sup with the Prince?”

Zoqhoq jolted out of his seat as if struck, “You’ve been invited to sup with the Prince?” Vis nodded. “Do you have the missive, by any chance?” Vis reached into his shirt and gave it to him. There was a strange need to keep it close, like an anchor in stormy winds.

The man read it, twice, pacing the length of the table. When he was done and sure of its contents, he turned to him, with a bright demeanor. “This is unusual, my Prince. The Prince of Pentos and council of magisters don’t sup with just anyone.”

Vis looked at him. “My sister and I aren’t just anyone—”

“Yes! Yes, my Prince. I meant no offense and I might be wrong, but I have cause to believe that there might be a chance for you to petition the Prince and council for Magister Illyrio’s estate.”

It was his turn to jolt off the seat. “Are you certain?” The man nodded. Vis tried to think back to his maester’s lesson, on the wars between Pentos and Braavos. He hadn’t paid much mind to it, finding anything concerning anywhere but Westeros a bore. Was Braavos truly that large of a threat? With Pentos unable to hire sell-swords, yes Braavos truly was.

“What do I have to do?” Vis inquired.

“Most importantly, you’ll need allies. Magister Illyrio’s closest business partners would be the right ones to reach out to, winning their favor will go a long way to swing the council’s opinion in your favor.”

“And the council themselves?”

“It is customary to present cases during events—the dinner would serve. How is the princess at this time? She’d have been married for almost two moons now if tragedy hadn’t struck.”

“She is in mourning concerning the magister’s death,” Vis answers, unsure as to why Dany is brought up. “but her training continues under the courtesan’s tutelage.” Then he remembers. “I will not sell my sister for Illyrio’s manse.”

“Even if the Prince requests it? It would cross any virile man’s mind, and a Targaryen princess should ensure the most bountiful of harvests from the gods.”

Vis scowled at the audacity of the man. “Damn the Prince, the gods, and the council to the hottest of the seven hells. He has the picking of maidens from all of Pentos, my sister will not be included. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my prince.”

The sun had sunk almost beneath the bay, the stars would soon come out. He rose from the settee, gathering the account books, his head spinning with wine and hope. “This has been eventful, and I am very grateful for your assistance.”

“It was an honor, my Prince.”

***

“I’ll be gone for some time,” he announces the next morning, as he took another spoon from the warm bowl. They were breaking their fast on a spread of steaming oats steeped in honey drizzled cream, a platter of cold fruits—raspberries, blood-oranges, peaches, and pomegranates, with a loaf of fresh baked bread.

Dany looked up, a half-bitten peach in hand. She wiped the juice from her mouth and asked. “Is all well?”

“Yes,” he smiled. There was no need to trouble her. “Just taking care of some of the magister’s business. I should be back in three days.”

“Could I be of help in some way?”

“Don’t worry about that Dany, just focus on your lessons, and everything you wish to so.” 

Her eyes narrowed with purple fire. “What I wish to do Viserys, is help you. But it’s always no with you! Everything shrouded in some secrecy! I wake up and you’re not home, the day runs its course with me worried. Is my brother dead? Has the usurper finally buried a blade into him? And when I am chanced to see you, you look like you’ve been dragged through the worst hells. Look at yourself Viserys! You’re a shaking mess with bowed shoulders, and drooping eyes. You hardly eat and barely sleep.”

Vis couldn’t look away from the burning gems that replaced her eyes, her fists were clenched tight, her face puffed pink. She was sagged into her chair, looking older than a maid of ten and three. “I’m sorry for raising my voice at you. I just…you’re the only family I have left. I don’t want to be alone.”

He swallowed and rubbed at mother’s ring around his neck, a pearly thing, that hung on a silver chain. “Perhaps, you’re right. I have not been fair to you, even Aegon needed his two sisters. I’m not sure what you can really do to help—” 

“I could see to the managing of the manse.” She interrupted.

He rose to his feet and strode to her side, she looked at him unsure. “Then I leave the manse in your tiny but hopeful capable hands.” She smiled wide and bright for him, stood and embraced him. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.” He replied, kissing her hair. “I’ll see you in three days.”

***

The skies were clear, and the seas were calm. Viserys’ heart was weighed down, his stomach was hollow, rejecting every offer he presented from all manner of sea-creatures, roasted, spiced, and skewered, to a slice of a towered cake; sat in the juice of boiled berries and covered with sugar. He indulged instead in cooled water from a golden chalice, in little sips at a time.

Even beyond the gossamer curtains, the air stunk with the scent of roast food, spices, flowers, and sweat from the fat magisters and the dancing whores from the pleasure barges that entertained them. He leaned over the rails slightly to take a measure of himself, tucking a silver hair back in place, he looked like a magister in his vibrant robes, with oiled silver whiskers atop his lips.

Could he do this? He sighed. A whole day had passed and all his attempts to speak to these men were disrupted by their strange need to celebrate. Celebrate what? He had no idea. But if he couldn’t convince a bunch of fat bastards to back his petition to keep the manse, how did he hope to seat the iron throne?

Was it folly to think he could still sit the Iron Thone? Could he even remember Westeros? The Red keep? Mother’s face?

He closed his eyes and thought of her, all he could see were pale red brick and twisted swords, dragon skulls that lined the hall—from the greatest to the least, drinking the light, and shining a glossy black. When he thought hard enough sometimes, on those morose nights in Braavos, he could hear the soft laughter of children—Rhaenys and Aegon —sometimes he got to be around them and play, the scratchy voice of his maester, and the sweet strumming of Rhaegar’s harp.

Oh, how he missed them so.

He caught himself quickly, this was a waste of time; he overturned the chalice into the sea. A servant in red rushed to his side, apologizing, bowing, and offering a silver tray for his chalice, the polished metal caught the sun’s rays as did the gold brand tight round his neck. The servant was a boy that could not be older than ten, he was frightened. Vis dismissed his worrying as politely as he could and asked for more cool water. He took a heady gulp of it and used the rest to splash his face awake. It was time to cross the trident. He would endure their foul breaths, mockery, and doublespeak **and** secure their support. He entered through the gossamer curtains.

After the whores were returned to their pleasure barges, the magisters sat to talk business. Viserys listened to their rambles until the topic of debts came up, and all heads turned to him, fidgeting on their seats. “Illyrio’s untimely demise was unfortunate. I’ve known him since my beginnings as a Norvos merchant, drunk of _nasha_ and sick of the control of bald men that whip themselves at the sight of girls.” One magister said, and the others chuckled. His name was Emzok, a very wealthy merchant still with loans past overdue.

“And yet,” Another began, Lysonar of Pentos, he could be wealthier than Illyrio, if he were not such a terrible gambler. “It is most important at this time to look to the future. If for nothing but our mutual friend, Illyrio, for that reason we will be supporting your petition for his estate.” Lysonar finished with his chalice raised, the others following suit.

Vis narrowed his eyes at their easy smiles. He was desperate, not foolish. “For the meager price of a clean slate, I’m sure.”

“Surely, nothing is free in Pentos boy.” Donequor said, an aging fool that continued to invest in pleasure barges, though most of his barges were either sunk by pirates or never returned. “If you don’t want our support, perhaps Vogyrio would appreciate it.” 

If you could support him, you wouldn’t be here. Vis thought. “You don’t call me boy, Donequor. For all the gray on your head, the inside of your skull is void. And for the rest of you, I can only forgive a quarter of your debts, no more.”

They stared at him with wild eyed, jaws clenched, nostrils flared. It made for a humorous sight. Lysonar sputtered first, spittle flying everywhere, “You must be japing. A quarter? Are you arrogant or are you foolish? You’ll be left with less than the clothes on your body if you’re without our support!”

Vis cleared his throat and rose from the settee, spiced wine sloshing in his chalice. “This is no jape, Lysonar. If I did not possess finer manners, I would have named all of you greedy and without loyalty for Magister Illyrio. Would you run your estate like that? Would you do business with someone with a legacy of making such reckless decisions? If the one who owed you came demanding for a clean slate, would you be incensed or agreeable?”

“Why should a man long dead determine the business of those who live?” Vyro posed, he dealt in trade on great ships that though profitable, were expensive to run with an heir with a taste for gambling. “I would name you greedy Prince Viserys. There is no need for secrecy here, we are all aware that our debts make barely a dent in Illyrio’s fortune, that is more than enough for two to live on.”

“Live on, yes. Continue to run a successful business, no.” Vis argued took a sip from his chalice, the wine was cool. “When—not if—when, the whole of Pentos hears about my wiping clean of your slate, what stops the next merchant and magister for taking a loan from me, denying me payment, and coming to me in his most modest clothing asking that I do the same for him.”

“Are you too weak willed to reject such proposals?” Donequor sneered, still reeling from Vis’ insult. 

Vis rolled his eyes at the old fool. “Not at all, I rejected yours, didn’t I? I’ve watched the magister manage his business on partnerships that have led to friendships. What is a better test of character? I would like to do the same. I would make friends and business partners of my own, invest in businesses, and see them rise, if the gods are kind. If you were to find out that a partner of yours had been completely forgiven of the debts, he owed a partner that you similarly owe, and if upon asking for the same treatment you were rejected. Would you be inclined to pay off your debts? And if you by some chance were, would you borrow from him again?”

They were all quiet.

“No, of course not.” Vis continued. “You wouldn’t and I wouldn’t either. For what reason are they forgiven, and I scorned? If I were to do business with both people, would they have my best interests or am I to expect my dinner wine to be laced with poison? I meant no disrespect, neither did I come to quarrel, only to honor Magister Illyrio’s respect for you all. Lysonar had the truth of it when he explained that I am need of your support, but magisters, you all require mine as well. Vogyrio, I hear, seeks to build himself an empire, I have no doubt he already has his friends. When my ancestor Aegon did the same, he forgave his friends and dealt mercilessly with his enemies. So, the real question is, are you Vogyrio’s friends or are you mine?”

***

He returned to the manse, braver and more hopeful than he left. And he was pleasantly surprised to see the manse running well. He did not have the time to make the usual rounds but as he saw the construction work on the stables, both boys uncharacteristically missing with guards in their place.

He met Moira during his search of the main building and was directed to find Dany in the building behind it, where the healer stayed. Candlelight guided his steps until the sound of the harp was heard. He followed and reached a library. Why hadn’t the magister mentioned it? It didn’t matter. From beneath the door sill, he watched Dany play her harp a sad tune on her harp. 

“You’re playing sad songs now?” He questioned, she turned and ran so sharply into his arms that it was a surprise she didn’t fall. He chuckled and embraced her. “Did you miss me that much?”

She pulled away and scoffed. “You were only gone three days, don’t get ahead of yourself.”

He whistled and gestured at the room, “And you found a library in that time.”

She pulled him into the room, towards the desk she was sat. “Moira said it belonged to Serra, he locked it up after she died. That’s where I got the sad song from. It’s a tale about a dragonlord named Aurion.”

He flipped the pages with care, the paper was thin and crumbling. “The Emperor of Valyria?”

“You know him?”

“Yes, it was one of the first stories my maester taught to me in High Valyrian, and I loved it so much that mother would read it to me whenever she was chanced to.” He’d blink back his tears, but Dany had seen them anyway.

She tucked the book away and pulled at his hands. “Come brother, tell me of the success of your trip over supper and I’ll tell you mine.”

As they walked, they talked, and he learned of her adventures. “Marisson says that all we need is to petition the Prince.” She said, the healers building behind them now. He found it interesting that Dany has endeavored to learn all the names of the servants. It’d be strange and almost impractical in the Red Keep.

“And Marisson is the healer?” He asks and Dany nods. “Well, she’s wise but Zoqhoq already explained that to me. The debt collector, do you remember him? Anyway, its no matter, I did what he advised, and we have the support of the closest of the magister’s allies and business partners. What’s left to do is make a case before the council of magisters and the Prince. In a week’s time, we’ll have our answer.”

She was joyed by the news, but she did not show it. He curved her mouth upwards, with his fingers. “Don’t fret Dany. No matter the council’s decision, I’ll keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed this. I hope you're all staying safe. Wishing you Happy holidays. Next chapter, we hopefully finalize Jon's woes.


End file.
